


Frightened Peace, A

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Action/Adventure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-08-19
Updated: 2002-08-19
Packaged: 2019-05-30 09:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 31,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15094040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Nobody, least of all Jed, is having a very good day. As it always happens, things go from bad to worse in very short order.





	1. Frightened Peace, A

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**A Frightened Peace**

**by:** Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew 

**Disclaimer:** Aaron Sorkin owns everything

**Characters:** Jed, Leo, Ron Butterfield and Abbey

**Category:** Action/Adventure, thrills, chills, angst and anything else we could throw into the emotional hopper. Hey, nobody told us we couldn’t, so we did  <VBEG>.

**Rating:** TEEN. Violence, emotionally driven language -although we think you’ll agree the characters are more than entitled to a little colorful venting by that point  <G>\- and a few minor adult issues.

**Spoilers:** Mostly ‘The Two Bartlets’ and ‘Night Five’, although we’ve managed to drop some hints about a few other things along the way. You’ve been warned.

**Author's Note:** We don’t own these characters. Aaron Sorkin and his evil minions do. Like many a fan fic author before us, we claim a momentary lapse of reason and all resulting ‘borrowings’ are a result of that slight mental aberration. Other than some questionable fun, we’ve made no profit from this exercise in literary mayhem and don’t plan on doing so in future. However, the words contained herein are ours. We hunted, captured, wrestled them to the ground and beat them into submission all on our own.

We’d like to dedicate this story to Sam -who opened the door for us with her own wonderful adventure fic- and Sheila, same reasons. Both have offered support and encouragement that can not be counted in words. And girls, it ain’t over yet <G>.

**Summary:** Nobody, least of all Jed, is having a very good day. As it always happens, things go from bad to worse in very short order.

"Mr. President, it's time."  Face professionally bland, the secret service agent stood by respectfully.

President Josiah Bartlet’s previously relaxed smile faded slightly and he gave the waiting helicopter a sour look. His step faltered a bit as he shoved his hands into his coat pockets and nodded a curt and unenthusiastic acknowledgement to the agent.

The President’s Chief of Staff, Leo McGarry, shot a knowing glance at his Commander in Chief and friend. His lips twitched and he was unable to entirely suppress a grin of amusement that was tinged with just a hint of sympathy. He was well aware that the high spirits the President usually exhibited while flying were noticeably subdued during trips on Marine One, or _any_ craft significantly smaller than the majestic 747, Air Force One.

McGarry suspected that a great deal of that exuberance stemmed from the fact that traveling aboard the huge executive aircraft was one of the few times in his life when the President was actually able to relax sufficiently to enjoy the experience of flight. There --apart from the fact that he usually traveled with more than sufficient work to keep his mind fully occupied-- the greater size and the freedom to move around was much more comfortable for him. It enabled him to conquer the latent claustrophobia that the more cramped and confining restrictions of commercial flight had always triggered. 

Bartlet had struggled with that fear for as long as McGarry had known him. He’d never been able to find out its origins --but he had his suspicions-- and at times had seen the phobia border on the crippling. It was at such times he was more than impressed with Bartlet’s sheer stubborn strength of mind.

Well aware of what was going through his Chief of Staff’s mind, Bartlet ignored McGarry’s look with studied dignity and faced the patiently waiting agent. "Thanks, Donny." He recovered enough of his composure to grace the young man with a quick smile. “You along for the ride this time?”

“Yes, sir!” Agent Donny Sandler nodded smartly, more than a little pleased that the President had remembered his name correctly.

Bartlet smirked and nudged McGarry with his elbow. "Ron wants him along to hold our hands, eh Leo?"

McGarry rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation. "Well, thank you for the thought, Mr. President, but I was under the impression we already had that covered ourselves."

He chalked up a mental _‘score!’_ as he saw the President’s head jerk back slightly and the narrow-eyed glare scorch him. An expression of mildly guilty amusement was the only satisfaction that Bartlet received in return. Only McGarry, with the confidence of a forty-year friendship of mutual trust and affection, could have gotten away with reminding the leader of the free world of that particular moment of personal embarrassment. 

Over a year before, another flight on Marine One had been hit by a considerable amount of turbulence. As always, Bartlet had remained outwardly calm, but his hands had instinctively grasped at the armrests of his seat. He was mortified afterwards to realize that what his left hand had clutched in a convulsive grip was not the chair seat but his Chief of Staff’s arm, which had been lying along the common armrest of their adjoining seats. Fortunately, there had been no bruising, but the sleeve of McGarry’s normally pristine suit had been irreparably creased for the remainder of the trip.

McGarry had been frankly amused by the incident and never passed up the opportunity to remind his friend whenever he got the chance. Emphasizing the end result seemed to distract his friend from the initial causes, exactly what he needed. The phobia McGarry understood, but not the reasons. He had crammed himself into far smaller cockpits than the passenger area of a Sea King helicopter and had certainly encountered far worse turbulence as a fighter pilot in Vietnam. It had been intriguing and more than a little entertaining to see his normally self-confident and mischievous friend's composure momentarily fractured.

Sandler had been waiting patiently, apparently oblivious to this by-play. Now he stepped forward again. "Mr. President, Agent Butterfield would like me to inform you that our departure is scheduled for five minutes' time. He requests that both you and Mr. McGarry take your seats."

"Yeah, yeah" muttered the President, giving the helicopter and the agent a dark look. "C'mon, Leo. You know how upset Ron gets when I throw out his schedule."

"I can't think why," McGarry commented dryly, following his President's rather unenthusiastic progress towards the idling helicopter. "Anyone would think you made a habit of running late. And as for lecturing him on the history of past assassinations, both attempted and actual …” skirting the protocol line, he fought back a grin and finished with perfect deadpan aplomb, “I really don't understand why he isn't more relaxed in your presence."

Bartlet glowered at his friend. "You're very uppity today,” he complained, although a glint of reluctant amusement flickered in his eyes. "Isn't it enough that you’re forcing me to take the weekend off, to say nothing of traveling aboard _that_ …" He waved his hand in the direction of their transport as words failed him.

McGarry’s amusement faded and he regarded the President with genuine concern. "Sir, I am truly sorry about the helicopter, but you know that a motorcade would take too long. And using Air Force One would involve too much manpower for what is supposed to be a quiet and discrete break. And you know that right now you really need this time away. If only to get some rest."

Bartlet muttered something under his breath that was lost in the swish of the rotor blades.

"What?"

Catching yet another glare, McGarry reflected that the recent sleepless nights he had been suffering from had seriously damaged Bartlet’s normally sunny disposition.

"I _said_ ,” the President enunciated with elaborate distinctness, "That I'm sleeping again now."

"Yeah, but only for a couple of hours at a stretch, and never for more than five hours a night" McGarry pointed out reasonably. Weighing his words carefully, he added, "Not only is that barely enough to keep going on your schedule, it's nowhere near enough to make up for all those nights that you missed entirely. And, if you'll excuse my saying so, Mr. President, I'd really rather not have you dropping off in the middle of another security briefing. For some reason, it tends to disconcert your advisors, not to mention what’ll happen if you do it next week with that Russian missile specialist.”

The President growled something unintelligible, although McGarry had a strong suspicion it was neither complementary to his Chief of Staff nor the Russians. Yet another reason to give the man a much needed break. Sleeplessness was one thing, but he didn’t think the Russians _or_ their ambassador would quietly put up with another dressing down like the one he’d given them over their shoddy missile program the previous year.

And with Bartlet in the mood he was in now, McGarry strongly suspected that civilities were going to be strained to the limit. Sighing, he pointed out, “With all due respect, sir, you _did_ start this. You made the offer. The specialist is only…”

“Malinoff.”

“What?”

“The specialist’s name is _Malinoff._ Gregori Malinoff.” The tight smile Bartlet gave McGarry offered neither humor nor apology, merely frustrated annoyance at the badgering. “See? I _was_ awake. Where were you?”

“Getting the coffee.”

Bartlet paused for a moment and with hunched shoulders, hands jammed deep into his trouser pockets, studied the tips of his shoes. Though he didn’t answer McGarry’s pointed remark, his face and the far away look in his eyes spoke for him.

A concerned Chief of Staff respectfully observed him for a moment, then leaned in. "Sir" he said quietly and discreetly, "Abbey's worried about you. Hell, _I'm_ worried about you. I don't know what happened that night between you and Toby, and Stanley's been playing the doctor/patient confidentiality card for all it's worth. Maybe it's not important that I know. But this I do know; you need a break. Maybe only for a day or so, but you do need it."

Bartlet glanced up sharply in surprise, and what looked suspiciously like a hint of relief. "Stanley didn't tell you what we discussed? I thought that …"

McGarry shook his head. "He said that the actual cause of the problem was not related in any way to your job and so was none of my damn business. At least unless it actually continued to affect you to the point where you were diminished in your capacity to perform that job. He saw no evidence of that yet and felt that the worst of the sleeplessness would ease soon, if only because you would be too exhausted to resist it. He did say that he felt a few more sessions might be beneficial, but that was entirely up to you."

Bartlet was regarding him oddly. "Toby didn't say anything either?"

McGarry snorted. As _if_ Toby would ever open up on that subject! "Apart from acknowledging that you two have been avoiding each other as much as possible, a not so easy task when you consider he _is_ your communications director, Ziegler has been about as communicative as you'd expect."

"I really thought one of them would have told you. I was waiting for someone to say something." Bartlet shook his head abruptly and turned away. 

"Something about what?"

For a brief moment, a look of withdrawal came over the President’s face. Then he laughed shortly, putting the matter aside with sudden good humor. "Nothing. Come on, Leo. I can see Ron from here. He’s just looked at his watch for the third time and glared at me. Do I have any skin left?” 

"Are you telling me that you're afraid of your own agent?" McGarry needled good naturedly, making a mental note to find out whatever it was Bartlet seemed so reluctant to reveal at a more opportune moment.

Bartlet regarded his Chief of Staff with open amazement. "Afraid of Ron? Are you insane?" Suddenly that impish grin that McGarry was surprised to realize he had missed in recent times broke out. "Of course I am! Do you know, that man once picked me up and carried me by the scruff of my neck during an emergency evacuation? I make it a basic rule never to annoy people who can do that."

Grinning, McGarry followed the President towards the waiting agents. His amusement bubbled up even further as he watched his friend instinctively duck as he passed under the wash of the blades, which cleared his head by at least six feet. Shaking his head, he wondered idly exactly where _that_ particular habit had originated. 

"Ron!" Bartlet enthusiastically greeted the tall, lanky head of his security detail, raising his voice over the roar of the motors. The two members of the accompanying Marine detail saluted the President smartly as he passed.

"Good day, Mr. President." Butterfield allowed his charge to precede him up the steps into the Sea King's passenger area. "You'll be pleased to know that we are proceeding more or less according to schedule. Our ETA at Concord is in approximately three hours time. A secret service detail will be waiting and the motorcade will then take you and Mr. McGarry to the Manchester farm."

"Three hours?" Bartlet paused abruptly on the way to his seat, something unreadable flickering in the back of his eyes. "Surely that exceeds the normal flight time?"

"Yes, sir. But Colonel March thought that, as this was a vacation trip, you might like a more scenic route. Accordingly, he has filed a flight vector that will take us slightly further inland, along the east side of the Catskills."

McGarry saw the President swallow a bit convulsively and grimace. He didn’t have to ask why. He raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry to ask if Bartlet wanted him to veto the suggestion. 

Bartlet gave his worried friend a quick shake of his head, refusing the offer. "That was very thoughtful of the Colonel, Ron,” he replied instead, surprised that he actually meant it. “Tell him I appreciate the gesture."

"I will, Mr. President. Colonel March's co-pilot for this flight is Captain Johnston. The only passengers are you and Mr. McGarry, accompanied by Agent Sandler and myself and the Marine detail.” Satisfied that this information had been passed on as efficiently as possible, Butterfield turned to the Chief of Staff and said, "Mr. McGarry, I would like to take this time to discuss some of the security details relating to the upcoming campaign schedule, if you can spare me a moment.”

"Sure Ron." McGarry nodded and turned to Bartlet. With sympathy for the man’s predicament, he offered a bit lamely, "Mr. President, Ron and I are just going to sit over here and go over some stuff."

Bartlet, who was buckling himself into his seat, waved him away distractedly. Sandler was just sitting down next to him in the adjoining seat. Taking his glasses from his coat pocket he slipped them on and picked up the book he’d brought along. He doubted he was actually going to be able to read and enjoy it –he never had before, not on Marine One— but it was worth a try.

McGarry shrugged at the somewhat curt dismissal and settled into a seat that would allow him to converse with Butterfield over the noise of the engines. The President may have been on a short vacation, but his Chief of Staff and the head of his security detail never really got that chance. Still, he didn’t begrudge him that, or the answers his friend wouldn’t give up.

The President of the United States would talk when he was ready. He always did and McGarry had the patience to wait.

A considerable time later, McGarry looked up from the schedule he had been going over with Butterfield and glanced at the clock set into the forward bulkhead.  They were over halfway into their flight time and rain clouds were plunging the cabin into premature dusk.  He reflected ruefully that the Colonel’s well-meant gesture had turned out to be a little pointless. What little he could see of the mountain range through the cabin window was shrouded in a thick mist of rain and dark, low hanging clouds.

Glancing across the cabin at the President, he couldn’t help but smile at the sight.  At least Bartlet wasn’t missing much, which all things considered was a bit of a blessing.  Drifting in and out of sleep, the President’s chin was resting on his chest, his book precariously balanced on crossed knees. As usual when he wasn’t really paying attention his reading glasses had slid almost to the end of his nose.

McGarry frowned slightly and found himself openly studying the man with some concern.  Bartlet looked a little better than he had during that stressful week when they all had begun to fear he would break down under the accumulated weight of the MS disclosure, the censure, the campaign and his wife’s unresolved problems with the Medical Board. 

However, McGarry couldn’t help but note that his face still had a few lines too many, and the shadows had not faded from under his eyes. The man still needed to make up a considerable amount of sleep and he’d finally laid down an ultimatum; either Bartlet took a weekend to rest and recuperate or his Chief of Staff --as was his right-- would drastically reduce his schedule.  To say that the President’s initial agreement had been unwilling was to put it mildly.

Given no other choice, McGarry had finally wheeled in the big guns and conscripted the First Lady to his cause only to find himself reluctantly co-opted into the weekend vacation as Bartlet flatly refused to go alone and Abbey had several appointments in the capital.

Still, he didn’t regret it.  It was worth the price paid to his ego and the layer of skin he’d lost to Abbey’s sharp tongue. Protesting that the President _didn’t_ need a babysitter to his concerned wife hadn’t been one of his most sterling moments. Truthfully, he was relieved. It had been a long time since he and Bartlet had been able to spend some time together. McGarry hadn’t realized till now how much he missed that. He was determined to use the opportunity and see if he could discover just what had been going on with his friend --over and above all the other crises-- in recent days.  He had no idea just what wound Toby might have inadvertently opened, but the President’s reaction had been unusually troubled.

Even now, his fitful napping was an indication of just how exhausted he must be. As much as he tried to, Bartlet _never_ slept while flying, as McGarry knew from painful personal experience.  Either tension or excitement always guaranteed that he would be wide-awake and talkative throughout any flight.  Even on the huge 747 the claustrophobia didn’t help either. The senior staff had quickly learned the necessity of catching a catnap before embarking on long trips with their President.

Suddenly, a muffled _boom_ reverberating from somewhere forward interrupted McGarry’s meditations.  A manic thought, _‘Mechanical?”_ was all he could manage when, almost simultaneously with the ominous noise, he found himself rising bodily into the air as his seat dropped sickeningly away from beneath him. The brief moment of weightlessness ended when his safety belt slammed him back into place with his stomach still churning.  

Across the cabin, the President’s book crashed to the floor as he was jerked violently awake.  For the moment more surprised than frightened, he stared wordlessly across the aisle at his Chief of Staff.

“What the hell…” McGarry glanced instinctively upwards as old, near forgotten habits enabled him to detect the fearful sound of unevenly beating rotors.  

“Ron?”  The President’s voice blended authoritative inquiry with ruthlessly controlled fear.  

“Please remain as you are, Mr. President, Mr. McGarry.”  Butterfield grimly unbuckled and stood up, making his way across the swaying floor towards the cockpit door.  He had barely passed McGarry before a second, much louder bang caused the craft to swing and dip violently, sending him stumbling to his knees.

McGarry reached down and managed to snag Butterfield’s arm as the helicopter went into a steep sideways dive. Somehow, he was able to swing the agent around until he was able to grab the arm of his seat and scramble back into it.

“Sandler!”  Butterfield bellowed as he struggled to refasten his seatbelt.  

McGarry saw Sandler reach out and snatch the glasses from Bartlet’s nose, then twist in his seat and fling his arm across the President’s chest, pinning him against the backrest. Bartlet’s lower face was buried in the crook of the agent’s shoulder, but the Chief of Staff could clearly see his eyes; wide, fixed, almost silver discs in his face.

Clinging desperately to his seat, half-deafened by the high-pitched whine of laboring engines, McGarry risked a glance out his window to see a mountain face approaching with distressing rapidity. For a second, the treetops disappeared only to be replaced by sky as their descent momentarily halted and they began to climb laboriously above the ridge once again.  Then the nose of the craft tilted and they plunged past the top of the ridge.

McGarry had a brief, dizzying view of rock and greenery and heard a swishing sound --were they actually scraping the treetops? -- before the whole craft suddenly jarred violently and whipped totally around, throwing everyone against their seat belts.  Then came a confusion of whirling sight and tearing metal.  

Then nothing.

~ooOoo~

"Mr. McGarry?  Mr. McGarry!  Can you hear me?"

McGarry roused himself reluctantly from the pleasantly warm cocoon he inhabited.  Reality proved to be far less beguiling.  He felt chilled and achy all over and there was an uneasily familiar ringing in his ears.  For a moment memory failed and panic seized him.  _What had he been doing to get into this state?_   Surely, oh God, no… surely he hadn't …not again…

"Mr. McGarry!"

"Ow!  Alright, alright!"  McGarry jerked upright with a suddenness that turned the ringing in his ears into an outright clamor.  Stopping himself just short of swinging, he growled, "I'm up!  What the …"

Blinking, his voice trailed off when he recognized his tormentor.  Butterfield's suit was torn and smudged and a small trickle of blood was curling down around his nostril from the bridge of his nose.  McGarry stared at the agent blankly for a moment, then sucked in a breath in remembrance. 

"Sir, are you alright?"  Eyes narrowed, Butterfield regarded him intently.  "Headache?  Any nausea or unsteadiness?"

Trained to quickly assimilate events, he watched as the Chief of Staff gingerly shook his head mutely. Satisfied with his assessment of McGarry’s physical well being, Butterfield winced and rose stiffly to his feet, holding his right arm tightly to his side.  "Then I could really use your help here."

"Huh?" With that rather brilliant response and holding his hand tenderly to what felt to be a very respectable knot at the back of his head, McGarry looked around vaguely.  

The cabin floor lay at a steep incline and the windows above them were cracked, seeping rainwater down onto the men below.  The other side of the helicopter seemed to lie on a bed of rock, with mud oozing into the interior. Broken tree limbs projected through the shattered lower windows into the cabin itself.

Blinking, he noted that the chairs he and Butterfield had been seated in and the area in which they rested had fared pretty well.  However, across the cabin …

"God! No!"  McGarry abruptly flung himself forward, only to be blocked and held back by Butterfield.

"Take it easy, sir!  We can't rush into this!"

"The hell we can't!"  McGarry was nearly trembling with shock and anxiety. The fear was lodged in his throat. "The President…is the President alright?"

"I don't know yet, sir.  As I said, I need your help."

"You mean he's in there somewhere?"  Regarding the scene of devastation in front of him, McGarry was appalled.

The opposite bulkhead appeared to have totally crumpled on impact, folding down over itself and against the adjoining cabin wall. To McGarry’s eyes it appeared as though everything on that side of the cabin had been swept and compressed into a single corner: metal sheeting, reinforcing struts, seats…and their occupants.

A deep and unaccustomed pain settled in his chest. McGarry knew its source. Josiah Bartlet was under that somewhere.  

With Butterfield’s help, McGarry climbed unsteadily to his feet. Following Butterfield’s lead, he carefully eased his way across the slanting floor to the jumbled mass on the other side. Dropping to his knees, he tried to see through the tangle of warped metal, hoping to catch a glimpse of a white shirt or familiar thatch of dark hair.  

Butterfield leaned over McGarry’s shoulder and directed the beam of a flashlight, recovered from one of the few remaining intact equipment lockers, into one of the gaps along the base of the pile.  

"There!" The agent’s hand tightened suddenly on McGarry’s shoulder and he directed the man’s attention towards a small flash of color in the flashlight's beam.  Color that transfigured itself into a red tie; the same color tie the President had been wearing that day.

"Mr. President?"  McGarry ducked his head from side to side, desperately squinting along the path of the flashlight beam.  "Can you hear me?"  

No response.   

"Mr. President?  For God's sake, please?” Abandoning the protocol that had ruled him the last three years, he raised his voice and shouted frantically, “Jed?" He reached out impulsively to rip away the barrier separating him from his oldest friend, only to have Butterfield’s cautionary hand come down again on his shoulder.

"Take it easy, sir,” Butterfield warned, a flash of fear momentarily breaking through his usual bland and hard countenance. It was quickly replaced by an expression of grim determination when he said, “We have to proceed with care.  That metal is extremely sharp, and we have no gloves or cutting equipment.  If you lay your hands open, you won't be of any use to me, or to the President. Until we know their situation, we can't afford to scrabble around in here haphazardly."

Feeling Butterfield’s hand tighten briefly on his shoulder, McGarry nodded stiffly, firmly beating down the panic rising in his throat. Working carefully, forcing himself to keep an even pace, he cautiously began to remove items from the barrier. The sound of rain and dripping water joining the creak of broken metal as he and the agent worked. 

He clenched his teeth in frustrated anger when thunder, far in the distance, began to rumble an ominous accompaniment to their careful work. Forcing himself to remain calm, McGarry knew what that sound meant. Their problems were about to get worse.

As if they already didn’t have enough to deal with.

The bulkhead had folded over to produce a tent-like effect but the upper edge had stopped its descent a little short of the floor, at one point by as much as two feet. It left what looked like a possible access point to the debris-filled area beneath.  

It was at this point that the two men began to work more rapidly, in hopes of finding that the 'tent' had created sufficient space to protect the missing men --one man in particular--from being crushed.

As they worked, Butterfield kept up a running commentary. To hear the sound of his own voice, for his own benefit or his companion’s, McGarry wasn’t quite sure. He suspected a bit of both. In a strange way, the normally taciturn agent’s need provided a bit of reassuring comfort. Wincing as the jagged edge of metal sliced into his fingers, he listened.

"As nearly as I've been able to determine since regaining consciousness, our tail section more or less folded over, causing the inner bulkhead to collapse.” Pausing to catch his breath, Butterfield waved a tired hand in illustration.  

The secret service agent’s expression stilled and, although McGarry had thought it a physical and emotional impossibility, grew even more serious. Hope and fear warred for dominance as he listened to the following words.

"I was unable to raise a response from either President Bartlet or Agent Sandler."  Butterfield swallowed uncomfortably and continued.  "The door to the cockpit is badly warped in the frame and impassable, but I was able to see through a space at the top of the frame.  I'm afraid I have to report that it looks as though neither Colonel March nor Captain Johnston survived impact."

McGarry closed his eyes momentarily, hands painfully gripping a torn bit of wreckage. Taking a steadying breath, he asked, "Are you sure?  I mean…you weren't able to get in to check."  

Butterfield said nothing, but regarded him steadily.  

McGarry looked away, for the moment unable to face the dire certainty in the agent’s gaze.  "Of course you're sure", he muttered. "Sorry, stupid question."  He took a deep breath and determinedly bent to his task.  "So it's just us? What about the Marine detail?"

Butterfield looked back at the remains of the rear cockpit, the tangled mess of metal and bulkhead blocking the way to the far end of the passenger area. Again, he didn’t need to say anything. His eyes, bleak and tired, said it all.

McGarry closed his eyes and whispered a short prayer for all the dead. “So it _is_ just us?”

"For the moment, yes sir."  Butterfield pulled away yet another jagged section of metal and carefully laid it aside. Grunting with the effort, he continued, "Because I can't reach the cockpit, I'm unable to access the radio.  But this _is_ Marine One.   Intelligence and the US Navy always have an exact pinpoint on her location whenever she’s in the air.  I'm pretty sure that we came down on the other side of the ridge to that displayed on our flight plan. Given the scale of the assistance that will be mobilized on our behalf, I don't anticipate there's much chance of their missing us.  We _will_ be located very soon.  Any delay after that will depend on the nature of the terrain, and ease of access to our location."

The worsening storm, as if to add it’s own terrible voice to the play, chose that moment to rumble its presence. Both men started involuntarily at the sound, exchanging worried glances.

“Or the storm,” McGarry spat out, frustrated and angry at circumstance.

“That too, sir.” Settling back for a moment, Butterfield slipped his hand under his jacket and closed his eyes.

"So, help's on the way even now, but we still don't know just when it'll get here", the Chief of Staff summarized grimly, pulling away another sheet of metal, all the while hoping to catch a glimpse of Bartlet or Sandler. " _We're_ perfectly well able to wait and those poor devils in the cockpit don't care anymore.  But we have no idea how long these two may be able to afford to wait until we get to them."

Butterfield’s lack of response signaled his fear that such a concern might well be moot when they finally reached their targets. He continued to work in grim silence, pausing every now and then to add his voice to McGarry’s and call out to the trapped men.

Getting a good grip on the edge of one over turned seat, Butterfield pulled then nearly doubled over, grunting as he pressed a hand to his side. 

“Hey!” Concerned, McGarry reached out and grasped the agent by the arm. “You alright?”

Shrugging off the hand, Butterfield hitched in a quick breath, grabbed another bit of debris and stated flatly, “It’s nothing.”

“Ron…”

“I _said_ ,” he leveled McGarry with a narrow eyed glare that dared him to push the issue further, “It’s nothing.”  

McGarry watched for a moment as Butterfield struggled with a torn bit of seat cushion, favoring his right side as he tossed it aside with a barely contained grunt. The man was in pain. How much or how badly, he knew if he asked he’d get the same response. _Nothing._ He wasn’t a doctor, but a mad list of possibilities ran through his mind. Ribs, internal injuries, nothing good came to mind.

Somehow, McGarry didn’t think their luck would hold that it was just a bad bruise, but he could hope. Without Butterfield, their chances of survival were markedly reduced.

Suddenly, Butterfield paused.  Eyes narrowing, he leaned in closer and cocked his head to one side, listening intently.

McGarry looked at him, startled and alarmed.  "What?"

The agent threw up a hand for silence, but McGarry had already heard a muffled groan sounding from behind the barrier.  Hope sprang in his chest, almost suffocating him and his concerns for the agent were replaced with another.  "Jed?"

The groan repeated and McGarry winced at the confusion evident in the sound, the bewildered fear in the broken cough that accompanied it.  There was silence for a moment, only the sound of breathing and dripping water. Then he heard an abrupt gasp, followed by the sound of frenzied scrabbling as if someone were clawing frantically at something with their bare hands.

"Jed?"  Leo was rewarded with even more panicked scratching and shallow, panting breathing.  "Jed!  Damn it!"

For the first time, Butterfield wore an expression of open alarm.  "What's happening?   Do you know what's wrong?"

"Not for certain, no!” McGarry nearly snarled his response to the agent’s concern. “But I'll bet you dollars to donuts it's that damned claustrophobia kicking in again, admittedly with good cause.  It sounds as if he's having a panic attack."  He raised his voice again.  "JED!  Listen to me!  Calm down, you'll only hurt yourself or hyperventilate and pass out or something.  And you _know_ I'll never let you live that down!  We're right here.  We're coming for you and we'll have you out in no time.  Now listen to me and stay still!"

He strained anxiously for a response, anything that would let him know he’d gotten through to the trapped man.  The scrabbling noises slowed until only the sound of heavy breathing remained.  

Finally, forced out between gulping breaths, a shaky voice called out, "Leo?"

McGarry went limp with relief and he saw a huge, uncharacteristic grin split the face of the taciturn security chief. He could feel a similar smile cracking the tense muscles of his own face. "Yeah, Mr. President. I'm here. How are you doin'?"

An explosive snort of shaky amusement rewarded him.  "Leo, would you _really_ like to know what I think of that question right now?"

"Normally, I think you’d know my answer, Mr. President. But right now, I'd welcome a lecture on the inappropriateness of my semantic choices."

"You would?"  

McGarry almost grinned at the surprise of the involuntary response. "Yes, sir. Because a lecture right now would reassure me that you've got the whole breathing thing back under control."  

He was rewarded with a hoarse laugh, more a cough but still filled with sarcastic humor. Even the crack of thunder, now nearly overhead, failed to still his joy at the sound. Things just might work out.

McGarry gave the man a moment to catch his breath, listening to the breathing in question and waiting for it to calm further.  Careful not to set off another panic attack, he inquired gently, "Mr. President?  You okay now?"

A few more deep breaths, then "Yeah…yeah, Leo.  I'm okay."

"Good.” He exchanged a relieved glance with Butterfield before asking, “What can you tell us about your situation?"

McGarry could hear the President struggling to control his incipient panic. Never more than at this moment, he marveled at the man’s self control.

"Well, I can't really move…my right leg hurts…and there's something pressing down on my chest and head.” A creak of metal and a muffled grunt as Bartlett shifted as best he could under the weight pinning him down. “Feels like it might be a seat or something."

"Okay."  McGarry actually felt himself relax just a bit. It wasn’t much, but things were looking up. Gesturing to Butterfield, he started once again to shift the rest of the wreckage and to work on clearing the gap.

"Leo?"

At the hesitant, still slightly breathless call, McGarry paused again. "Yes, Mr. President?"

"You, ah…you couldn't hurry, could you?  Only, I'm not sure how long I can stay on top of … you know?"

McGarry softened his voice sympathetically.  "I know, sir. You're doing fine. If it starts to get too much, call out to us, talk to us.  We're coming.  We'll be with you real soon."

"Thanks, Leo".  A pause, then the voice returned with a definite quaver in it.  "Ron?"

"Yes, Mr. President?"  Butterfield leaned towards the voice.  

"Are the pilots alright?"

Butterfield sat back on his heels and glanced at the Chief of Staff. He watched him struggle for a moment with the decision and hesitate, then grimly nod his assent for the agent to answer the question honestly. Equally grim, knowing full well how the truth would affect the man trapped under the wreckage, he leaned forward again and answered, "I'm very sorry, Mr. President.  I'm afraid that they didn't make it."

“The Marines?”

“No, sir.”

There was a short silence.  "You and Leo alright?"

Butterfield almost smiled, although his hand strayed to his side and a slightly guilty look shadowed his eyes. "Yes, Mr. President. Nothing some aspirin and a new suit wouldn't cure."

"I'm glad to hear that, Ron.  Keep an eye on Leo, won't you?  He's not very good at taking care of himself."

McGarry shot a look of long suffering exasperation at the pile.

"I will, sir." This time the agent did smile, if only a little.

"Ron?"  Slightly more hesitantly.

"Yes, sir?"

"Agent Sandler …" Bartlet’s voice tailed off momentarily, "I'm sorry."

Butterfield’s eyes closed.  "So am I, sir."

McGarry had no problems following that bit of dialog and what it meant. Upset, he spoke impulsively.  "Are you certain, sir?  I mean, you're not really in a good position to judge."  Almost immediately, he kicked himself.  Not again.

"I'm pretty sure, Leo.” Bartlet’s voice shook slightly. A long pause, then, “I can just feel his head when I stretch down my hand, and it's …” the words seem to catch in his throat.

The words may have remained unspoken, but not the terrible meaning. Exchanging a horror-stricken look with Butterfield, McGarry could hear the President’s breathing starting to stress again. "God, I'm sorry!” Redoubling his efforts to shift the twisted metal blocking the way, he said, “Mr. President, please listen. Concentrate on my voice.  Concentrate on breathing slowly.  We're nearly there."

The two men intensified their efforts, McGarry all the time keeping up a flow of inconsequential conversation, demanding responses from his trapped friend. Finally, he watched as, with a grunt that was both triumph and pain, Butterfield managed to haul loose a sizeable remnant of storage locker that had been blocking the gap.  Dropping to his knees, McGarry wriggled under the overhang into the small space thus provided.

Butterfield passed him the flashlight and he quickly examined his surroundings.  He was relieved to find that here, near where the bulkhead folded towards the cabin wall, it was possible to stand almost upright. The area around him was a jumbled mass of cabin fittings and structural materials. The space narrowed sharply as he played the torch further along, creating an eerie, cone-like effect. However, at this point the mass did not rise to meet the metal wall curving above, leading him to hope that it would indeed be possible for them to free the trapped man themselves.

A faint, odd smell tickled McGarry’s nose and his memory. It was barely there, shifting and fading as he moved his head. He couldn’t place it and felt somewhere deep down that he should.

A weak, broken cough issued from beneath the wreckage.

"Mr. President?"  Heart in his throat, McGarry angled the light and peered in the direction the voice had seemed to come from.

"Here…I'm here!"  Bartlet's voice sounded muffled, hope fighting with the panic riding just below the surface.  A section of the pile shifted slightly, as if the man beneath had heaved upwards with all his strength.  

McGarry abandoned caution and advanced the necessary step or two hastily.  Behind him he heard Butterfield grunt as he squeezed his long frame into the gap they had created.  Taking a deep breath and eyeing the twisted debris in front of him, the President’s Chief of Staff noted grimly that he and the secret service agent had their jobs cut out for them. This was _not_ going to be easy.

Nearly laughing at the thought, McGarry choked it back. As if _anything_ he’d done or contemplated in the White House these last three years could be considered easy. It all amounted to a warped game of _mission impossible_ and somehow he’d always managed to find a way to win. Grimly, he set himself the task of figuring a way out of this one.

Losing was not an option.

As if the elements were laughing at him, a peel of thunder rolled almost directly overhead. Looking up, he listened as the rain beating down on the outer bulkhead increased its tempo, starting to come down in sheets.

Anxiety and fear for his friend cooled his thoughts, though he found it impossible to steady his erratic pulse. Playing the light along the wreckage, he noted that several rather heavy sections of metal, including the remains of yet another locker lay on top of and almost entirely concealing what did indeed appear to be one of the helicopter's passenger seats.

McGarry’s lips tightened. Somewhere beneath that chaos was his friend. He called out, "Mr. President?"

"Yes!"

The tense lines of his face relaxed and McGarry felt the knot in his stomach release. Bartlet's voice now seemed to rise from directly beneath the remains of the seat. Kneeling down, he put his hand on the back of the seat, willing the man trapped beneath to feel his presence. He called again, “Mr. President…”

“Leo?” Bartlet’s voice was deceptively calm, a faint tremor of mocking humor covering the thread of panic still fighting for dominance. “I warn you; the next words you utter had better not be _'are you there?'_   Could you _please_ see about getting me out of here?  Now?"

Swallowing hard, McGarry found his voice and replied thickly and with pride, "You know our staff motto, sir.  We serve at the pleasure of the President.  Be right with you.” He glanced up and exchanged a determined look with the waiting agent. Giving the man a curt nod, he said, “Ron?  Can you squeeze in here beside me; I'm going to need a hand."

Butterfield eased alongside McGarry and the two of them once again began to slowly and methodically lift away metal fragments, awkwardly moving the pieces behind them and to one side. 

Gingerly handling the jagged edges, McGarry was conscious of a sense of profound gratitude that Bartlet had been shielded by the padding of the chair.  If not, he might well have been cut to ribbons.

Eventually, they had cleared enough to be able to get a good grip on the leather back of the upended seat.  Satisfied at their progress, McGarry paused and called out hopefully,  "Mr. President?"

"Yeah?"  The note of stress had returned to Bartlet's voice.  With the prospect of freedom so close to hand, he was having a hard time trying to control his emotions and desist from attempting to fight his way through the last of the barrier separating him from his rescuers.

"We've reached the seat you say is weighing down on you.  We're about to attempt to lift it off."

"Good.  Fine.  Whatever.  Just get it off me, Leo. It feels like forever since I've been able to take a deep breath."

"That's not such an unusual feeling for you, surely?" McGarry couldn’t help but smile as he said that.

The somewhat peevish response from the President of the United States didn’t disappoint him in the least.

"Leo, if this is your way of bringing up Toby's criticism of my delivery of that speech to the DC Law Society last month, that was not my fault!  You know Sam loves long sentences.  He calls it imagery."

"I think Toby called it _'forgetting to inhale'_ , sir."

A brief grunt, somewhat resembling what McGarry _might_ have called a laugh, issued from the granite-faced agent trying to get a good grip on the back of the passenger seat. A quick glance reassured the Chief of Staff that no, the laws of the universe had _not_ been suspended and Butterfield was as stoically reserved as ever. 

"Leo."  The mild humor had leached from the President's voice again.

“Yes, sir?” McGarry turned his attention back to the job at hand.  

"I want you to know that I appreciate the distraction and all, but I really need you to get me out of here.  Please?"

"We're just maneuvering for a good angle," McGarry spoke reassuringly.  "We don't want to jolt you when we lift it away, or have anything else fall down on top of you." He looked across at Butterfield, who nodded, and gripped his side of the seat firmly.  "Ready?

Making sure his own grip was secure, Butterfield nodded again.

“Now!"

The two men heaved at the seat.  For a brief, terrible moment, it stuck awkwardly in place, and then it abruptly yielded to their frantic tugging.  They swiftly manhandled it to one side and then waited to see if their actions had caused a dangerous shift in the remaining wreckage. The sound of their heavy breathing, the constant drip of water, were the only things to be heard.

When nothing happened, McGarry breathed a sigh of relief. And for once the storm left out its mocking comments. Dragging out his flashlight, he shone it down into the dark space they had created at their feet.

President Bartlet blinked dazedly in the sudden blinding light, one hand coming up to cover his eyes.  His face was dusty and had a deep bruise on one cheekbone. Another bruise darkened the line of his jaw.  Blood coated the side of his head and matted his hair from a deep scalp wound just above his hairline, which was still bleeding profusely.  His chest heaved convulsively as he struggled to bring his breathing under control.

Butterfield dropped to a crouch beside his charge, wadding a handkerchief against the head wound in an effort to stop the bleeding.  

McGarry carefully lowered himself down on the other side and placed a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder. Afraid of what he might see, he played the flashlight down over the President's body.

Bartlet's torso was visible to just below his chest.  At that point his body disappeared beneath a heavy steel girder, clearly what was left of one of the bulkhead's main supports.  To McGarry’s vast relief, the weight of the girder was held off the President's midsection by the debris on either side.  One of Bartlet's arms was free and now lay across his chest, fingers nervously clenching and unclenching.  The other arm disappeared beneath the girder. The trapped man had plainly been unable to withdraw it because of the awkward angle at which he lay among the rubble.  

McGarry scowled as he looked at the point where that arm vanished beneath the debris.  Somewhere under that pile, just within reach of Bartlet’s fingertips lay…he pushed the mental picture firmly from his mind, swallowing his deep regret for the young agent dead beneath the rubble.

Kneeling down, he gently touched his friend's shoulder. He nearly swore out loud when Bartlet turned a strained and slightly dazed face towards him.  

"Sir?"  he asked softly.

Shifting as best he could under the weight pinning him down, Bartlet coughed and grimaced slightly.  "Think…I may have bruised my ribs," he explained. Catching his breath, he summoned up a weak smile.  "Thanks, Leo. I was starting to feel a little confined, and you know how much I like to have room in which to expand my considerable personality."

McGarry smiled down at him. The humor, however weakly given, was a good sign. "We'll see if we can't find you a little more room, Mr. President."  He looked inquiringly at Butterfield.

Butterfield looked up from his rudimentary first aid. The handkerchief was already soaked crimson. Catching the Chief of Staff’s alarmed expression, he nodded reassuringly.  "It's not as bad as it looks, Mr. McGarry.  Head wounds always bleed a lot.  It needs stitches and if I can't stop it, the blood loss may make him nauseous and light-headed, but it's not exactly life-threatening."  

The agent shifted his position slightly to better view his President's situation.  His eyes narrowed and his mouth thinned into a bleak line.

From the look on the man’s face, McGarry knew he didn’t like what he saw.

"There's no way we can move that girder, or access under it,” Butterfield was saying, giving the remaining wreckage pinning his charge a supremely sour look, as if it had dared to offend him somehow. Shaking his head, he asked, “Mr. President, do you feel any weight on your legs?  If the girder has created a pocket of space for your body, and nothing is pressing down on you, we may be able to drag you back out from beneath it."

Closing his eyes, Bartlet grimaced again and frowned in concentration.  "My left leg is fine…can even move it a little.  Just feels like the time that Michigan linebacker stomped on it at that college game.  My right leg…I don’t know.  It hurts pretty badly, and there seems to be some kind of pressure…" His voice trailed off and he paused. Uncertainty clouding his voice, he finally answered, "No, I don't think there's anything heavy lying on it though."

McGarry regarded him with some concern and more than a little suspicion. He hadn’t missed the hesitation and what it meant. He knew Josiah Bartlet far too well. He was a terrible liar. "Sir, are you sure?  I mean, I know you want to get out of this, but we can't afford to take chances…"

"I _do_ want out of this!"  Bartlet interrupted vehemently, his voice laced with a desperate determination.  

Although his expression changed very little, Butterfield looked on helplessly and waited, watching the two men. The President’s breathing had started to become labored again and he saw the Chief of Staff squeeze the man’s shoulder reassuringly. This call was out of his hands. 

 Stopping just short of pleading, Bartlet took a deep, gasping breath and said softly, "Leo?  I need to get out of this.  Just … try."

"Okay, okay. We'll try. Please, sir, relax.” McGarry patted his arm helplessly. There wasn’t much more he could do. “You won't do yourself or us any good if you tense up or pass out.  Now, slow breaths, remember?  Get it back under control and then we'll try."

He held his friend's hand, feeling the fingers cold in his grasp as Bartlet fought valiantly to get the panic back under control.  His clothes were slightly damp. Rainwater was trickling in beneath him from the cracks in the fuselage and dripping off the twisted girders. That wasn’t going to help if he started to slip into shock.

And that smell. There it was again. McGarry turned his head, trying to capture it and the memory. He was so close. He started as a particularly nasty peal of thunder cracked overhead, chasing away the memory he was so close to catching.

Turning his attention back to the President, McGarry watched in powerless silence as Bartlett slowly calmed and regained his control.  He mentally cursed the phobia that was making things so much harder for his friend. 

When he was sure Bartlet was as calm as he could get under the circumstances, he nodded to Butterfield and they both eased up to slide their hands under the President's arms.

Keeping his voice as even as he could, McGarry said, "Sir, we're going to try to draw you straight back and out from under the girder. There's just enough room behind you. You ready?"

Swallowing hard, Bartlet nodded his assent and braced his free hand on McGarry’s upper arm.  He felt Butterfield’s hand slide beneath his armpit on the other side and lift him slightly. He winced at the sudden pain the movement caused. Tensing in anticipation, he looked up just as the agent signed his readiness to McGarry.

Lips pressed tightly shut so no sound could escape, he braced himself as the two men pulled and together drew back on his arms.  

Both men stopped abruptly, shocked as a sharp cry burst from the President. McGarry winced as the man’s fingers closed convulsively on his arm.  Panicked, he looked down.  Bartlet’s eyes were closed and his lips drawn back over his teeth in a grimace of pain.  His body held rigid, and then suddenly deflated as the worst of the throe passed.  

"What happened?"  McGarry heard his own voice, high with fear. 

The President shook his head, unable to answer. 

Grim faced, Butterfield seized the flashlight and ran its beam over the President's body, looking for injury. He almost snarled his frustration when he failed to see anything obvious.

Finally the pain subsided enough to allow Bartlet to speak.  "My leg!"  He gritted out between his teeth, perspiration gleaming wetly on his face.

Butterfield crouched down further, his head nearly resting on the President’s chest and shone the flashlight into the tiny space between the man’s body and the girder.  He stayed in position for some moments, carefully peering into the limited field of vision.  Finally he drew back, shaking his head in angry self-disgust.

"What is it?"  McGarry had eased an arm under his friend’s head and was cushioning it in the crook of his elbow. It was a useless question and from the look on Butterfield’s face, one he really didn’t want the answer to.

  

Bartlet lay still with eyes closed and face pale, his breathing punctuated by short gasps.  Occasionally his throat moved as he swallowed convulsively against the bile rising in it as the pain in his leg burned and clawed at him.

"I should have checked before we tried anything."  Butterfield shook his head, for the moment unable to answer further. 

The agent was as angry as the Chief of Staff had ever seen him. That anger was no less intimidating for being directed at himself.  McGarry could also see the pain hovering behind his eyes as he explained further. More problems added to the growing list.

"It's barely visible, but it looks as if one of the metal spars from the interior wall has embedded itself deep into his leg just above the knee.  I can see blood welling up around the shaft, so we must have aggravated the hell out of the injury when we tried to pull him out of there."

Shocked, McGarry looked down at his friend.  "We can't get him out?"  

Butterfield shook his head.  "I definitely wouldn't like to try it. There's no way we can reach the spar and we have no means to cut or extract it.  We try to just haul him out, no telling what damage we could do. As it is, we may have already done more than enough harm. I just hope the bleeding slows, and that we didn't tear a major vein."

"And if we did?" McGarry already knew the answer, but had to ask.

"Then you had better hope that help comes very soon, Mr. McGarry."  Butterfield was painfully blunt, his professional mask once again in place, his own pain and discomfort disguised by the concern for his charge.  "At the moment I can't even reach the wound to try to place any kind of effective compress on it to slow the bleeding."

McGarry sat in stunned silence as the wind whistled noisily around the wreck, driving rain into the cramped interior. He looked down abruptly as the President stirred in his arms.  Bartlet’s eyes fluttered open and the Chief of Staff winced to see them dull with pain. _This shouldn’t be happening._ It tore at his heart when the man smiled weakly up at him.

"Guess I called that badly, huh Leo?"  Bartlet’s voice was thin, a weak shadow of the vibrant instrument that could weave spells with words.  "I'm…sorry, old friend.  I had a feeling something was wrong, but I wanted out so much, I just hoped it wasn't anything major."

McGarry tightened his arm around his friend reassuringly, felt the cold hand grip that arm tightly in return.  "It's okay, sir.  We'll deal with it. Don’t we always?"

Butterfield looked away.

"You'll have to be the one Leo…you and Ron.  I'm afraid I'm not going to be much help." Bartlet laughed weakly and he flashed a pale imitation of that impish grin.  "The worst I have to worry about is maybe not making it. You on the other hand will be stuck with the joyful task of explaining to my loving spitfire of a wife just why you allowed her jackass of a husband to talk you into trying to haul him out of wreckage with a spar of metal through his leg." 

McGarry froze, the implication of those words washing over him in an icy wave of powerless terror. If Bartlet himself honestly did not expect to come through this ordeal …he forced the thought away from him with violent anger.  Damn it, _no_!  He had faced the possibility of losing his friend too often since he had taken office.  First the stunning news that his friend was suffering from a chronic disease that might one day rob him of his tremendous vitality and that alert intelligence, perhaps even his very life.

Then that dreadful night at Rossyln, the first panic and the false relief when he heard the President was on his way back to the White House.  Fleeting release only, to be followed by that terrifying moment in the car when the agent told him he was sorry, but they had orders to divert instead to GW Hospital. The mad dash down the corridors to finally burst through the exam room doors and see…

He closed his eyes and swallowed, then looked down again at his President.  Bartlet's face had a grayish tinge, and the hand that once again rested inside McGarry’s was cold and clammy. However, those pain-drawn features continued to gaze up at him quizzically and the blue eyes still retained their usual sparkle of intelligence, mingled with a faintly self-depreciating humor. 

McGarry’s face felt stiff, but he forced the muscles into a smile. "Yeah, right!  Don’t think you're going to get away with landing me with that task. This one you’re going to have to explain for yourself."

Bartlet's lips quirked up on one side.  "Are you telling me,” he teased gently, "that the man who told a House Disciplinary Committee that it was his job to take a bullet for the President…oh, yes." At Leo's abashed look he tightened his grip momentarily in unspoken gratitude. "I heard about that…is still afraid to face the President's wife?"

McGarry swallowed and spoke with deliberate lightness. "Sir, with all due respect, a bullet can only kill me. The First Lady tends to maul her victims rather badly, especially those who have been careless enough to damage her husband in any way. I'd much rather die with all my limbs intact."

He was rewarded with a low snort of laughter and a faint murmur of, "Chicken!" before the President's eyes closed and his head rolled to one side to rest against the Chief of Staff’s chest.

Alarmed, McGarry looked up at Butterfield, who had remained silent throughout the exchange.  

The agent leaned forward to touch his fingers lightly beneath the President's jaw.  McGarry's eyes widened at the gesture and he sucked in a breath of relief when Butterfield pulled back and reassured his anxious audience with a slight nod.  

"It's alright, Mr. McGarry, he's just passed out for the moment."  Butterfield began efficiently ripping a long strip from the lining of his jacket.  "We'll need to wake him again in a minute. Between the leg injury, the bleeding and the wound to his head it would be dangerous to allow him to sleep. He's already in danger of slipping into shock and we have no means of determining whether or not he may have a concussion."

"Oh God,” McGarry swore softly. A curse or a prayer, he wasn’t sure. A wave of apprehension, sheer dread, swept through him and he snapped, “Wake him, _now_!"

"In a moment, sir.  I want to take advantage of the circumstance.  This might hurt him otherwise."  Butterfield understood McGarry’s fear, shared it. But he couldn’t afford to let it rule him or his actions. He held out his hand. "Can I have your handkerchief?"

"Huh?" McGarry blinked and gave the man a blank look, totally caught up in the feeling of the weight lying against him.

"Your handkerchief,” Butterfield repeated patiently. "I want to put a compress on his head wound.  See if I can halt the bleeding there at least, given that we can't do much about his leg."

"Oh!"  Flushing at his own stupidity, McGarry balanced Bartlet's head as well as he could while digging through his coat pocket. He became aware of an oddly warm, clammy patch on his shirtfront that cooled rapidly as he shifted position. He swallowed convulsively when he realized that the blood still streaming from the injured man's head had soaked right through the lining of his jacket. 

Gritting his teeth, he silently handed the handkerchief to Butterfield and watched as the other man added it to his own soaked linen, pressing both down firmly on the wound, and started to wind the strip of jacket lining tightly over them and around the President's head.

"Ow!"  Bartlet was awake now, startled by the manhandling and managing to throw a pretty good elbow into McGarry’s stomach.  

Grunting and catching the flailing arm, McGarry pressed down gently on his friend's chest to prevent him moving suddenly.  He’d wanted the man awake, but not like this. “Sir…”

"Damn it, that hurts!"

"Sorry, Mr. President,” Butterfield did not pause in his task. Truthfully, he was rather pleased Bartlet had the strength to grouse and complain. "Almost done."  He reached down and snagged the pin from Bartlet's tie, using it to secure the rough bandage in place.

"Careful with that", the President growled irritably. "Abbey gave me that for our anniversary three years ago and I copped hell when I mislaid it for a week."

"I remember the search, sir."  Butterfield's voice may have contained just a trace of ironic amusement. "I'm sure the First Lady would understand in the circumstances and approve."

"Whatever. Just so long as you know _you'll_ be the one doing the explaining this time."  The President's voice trailed off and his head began to loll back against McGarry’s chest again.

"Mr. President?” Worry clouding his voice, Butterfield tried to regain the man’s attention. “I'm sorry sir, but you can't fall asleep."  

The only reply the agent received was a slightly peevish mumble.

"Mr. President?" McGarry tapped his friend's cheek gently, this time easily evading the feeble swatting motion that Bartlet made in response.  

"Leave me 'lone…tired."

McGarry sighed heavily.  "I know sir, but we really need you to stay awake until help gets here. You could have a concussion and we have no idea how badly your leg may be wounded.  How does it feel?"

"Hmmm?"  Bartlet roused himself with an effort.  He shifted slightly, before freezing with a stifled groan.  

McGarry tightened his arms around him instinctively, felt the man’s muscles tense, then relax. But only a little. “Sir?” He prodded, trying again for an answer.

"It hurts, Leo…a lot.  And it's cold.  My foot seems numb, can hardly feel it.  In fact,” Bartlet’s whole body suddenly shook in an involuntary shiver, "I feel pretty cold all over."

McGarry shivered slightly in sympathy and suddenly became aware once again of the sound of wind and rain playing through the cracks in the damaged fuselage. If at all possible, the storm had become worse. The constant drip of water around them, the frequent and alarmingly close rumbles of thunder were testament to that unwelcome fact.

Gritting his teeth to stifle a grunt of pain,Butterfield rose abruptly to his feet. "I'm going to see if I can find blankets in the lockers remaining in the cabin. I'll be back in a moment.  Please keep him talking, Mr. McGarry."  He twisted around and ducked under the cleared area of overhang.

McGarry watched him leave, then looked down at the man resting against his arm and sighed. Bartlet’s eyes had already closed again and his breathing had softened as he hovered precariously close to sleep.  He gently joggled the arm on which his friend's head was laying. 

Forcing himself to keep the alarm out of his voice, he said loudly, "Hey!"

Bartlet’s eyes snapped open and he snarled angrily, " _What!_ " 

For a moment, the full force of the President’s formidable temper left McGarry speechless. Then he grinned and said, "You know, I'm getting a whole new appreciation for Charlie's hatred of waking you up in the mornings."

"Ha, funny."  Bartlet countered with a cynical curl of his lip. Shifting as much as he was able, he thrust his free hand impatiently against the heavy girder imprisoning him. 

"Careful.” McGarry gently captured the wavering hand. “You'll cut yourself and you can't afford to lose any _more_ blood."

"Whatever."  

McGarry was dismayed at the weary, pain-laced tone of the President's voice. Underneath that was a hint of something he’d never heard before. Resignation. That more than anything sent a chill up his spine. 

"I feel like it's weighing down on me, Leo.  Like I can't fill my lungs."

Closing his eyes briefly, McGarry tried to ignore the dull ache of foreboding those exhausted words produced. Bartlet was riding the ragged edge and there was nothing he could do to help. How did you cope with an irrational yet very real fear, especially under these circumstances?

He had always admired his friend's strength of will, but never more so than now.  He knew it was taking every shred of Josiah Bartlet’s self control to prevent himself from trying to rip that metal spar right out of his leg in a frantic struggle for freedom from his coffin-like confinement. Even now, he could feel the man’s chest laboring slightly under his hand and hear the uneven breathing. With frightful certainty he knew that the rigid tension of his friend's muscles came almost as much from that effort for control as from the terrible pain emanating from his leg.

"I'm sorry."  He gave his friend's hand a gentle little shake.  "You're doing really well.  I'm proud of you. Just try to hang on a little longer. Help will be here soon."

He silently prayed those words were true.

Bartlet nodded weakly, for one of the few times in his life without words.  A heavy, tense silence fell for a moment, only to be broken when the wind howled mournfully through a crack in the fuselage. He nearly smiled at nature’s rather snide commentary on the whole proceedings.

"You know," McGarry tried for a light tone, "When we get back I'm probably gonna kill Jonathan."

Bartlet twisted his head slightly to regard his chief of staff with puzzled surprise.  "Jonathan …as in my brother?  Why?"

"For the steamer trunk." At Bartlet’s blank expression, McGarry continued, still trying to keep his words and mood easy, "That comment you made, about Jon locking you in one when you were kids.  I asked Abbey if you had told her about it, thought it was funny, he being your kid brother and all.  She told me you’d said that you actually passed out.”

McGarry paused for a moment, unsure as to whether he had the right to continue. Another time, another place and he would simply _ask_. But this was the President of the United States. How far do you push?

Thunder roared outside and made the decision for him. He had to know. “Wasn't that what started the claustrophobia?  You've had it for as long as I've known you."

"It wasn't Jon's fault, he didn't know it would affect me like that. Besides, he was only a kid.  He was just imitating…" Bartlet broke off abruptly.

McGarry regarded him sharply and with some surprise.  "Imitating who?"

He was stunned by the expression he saw steal over his friend's face just before it went carefully blank. It was a chaotic mixture of anger, sadness and remembered fear and shame.

"Nothing."  Bartlet shifted and grimaced slightly.  His voice became deceptively light.  "Practicing psychotherapy without a license, Leo?  For shame.  Seems to be becoming a bad habit for everybody lately."

McGarry frowned, a sudden sense of revelation overcoming him. "Was that what Toby did that night, Jed?” For a brief moment he once again forgot protocol, the rigid and unbending rules he’d lived by for three years. This was his friend and he was in pain. “Try to play mind games?  What on earth did he say?  Because I've never seen you…"

"Leo!" Weak though the voice was, there was no mistaking the tone, the sudden anger that flashed and clouded his eyes. Thunder chose that moment to rumble a spiteful accompaniment overhead and Bartlet let out a short, bitter laugh. “Thanks for the assist,” he muttered ironically, feeling a bit put out that the director of this whole piece felt it necessary to add his two cents in.

The Chief of Staff practically ground to a halt.  Forty-year old friendship or not, and despite Bartlet's normally open nature, he was plainly walking a line that his instinct told him Toby had stomped all over with trademark Ziegler doggedness in pursuit of an ideal.

"Jed, please." McGarry pressed forward, trying to force the issue. He could be as dogged as Toby on any day and he sensed he was hovering on the edge of discovering just what had wounded Bartlet so deeply that night.  

It had troubled him more profoundly than he could easily express to watch his friend over the course of that week.  In fact, he had been the direct instigator of Dr. Stanley Keyworth's involvement in the whole affair and had been frustrated beyond belief by that gentleman's refusal to be forthcoming about matters. 

Bartlet's lips twisted and he opened his mouth to utter a curt response when he was interrupted by the sound of Butterfield endeavoring to worm his way back into the small space with a couple of blankets in tow.

Bartlet turned his head away as the agent approached, closing his eyes and feigning sleep.

It was a poor ruse and McGarry knew at that point the conversation, unsatisfactory as it had been, was officially over. He sat there for a moment, shoulders slumped and with a worried expression on his face he made no attempt to hide. Wearied by events and indecision, he reluctantly let it go, for now at any rate.

There would be another time.

“Here,” Butterfield handed him the blankets. Uncertainty crept into his expression as he looked down at his sleeping charge. He wasn’t fooled by the act any more than McGarry was. He hesitated; measuring the situation for a moment, then asked quietly, “Can you handle things here, sir?”

“Why?” Accepting the blankets and shaking one of them out, McGarry gave the waiting agent a curious look. “Is there a problem?”

The corner of Butterfield’s mouth twisted slightly in what might have been described by someone who didn’t know him as a mocking –albeit only _slightly_ —smile.

“Okay, okay,” McGarry growled, glad of the semidarkness that hid his embarrassed wince. “Is there _another_ problem I should know about? ‘Cause I’ll tell you right now my plate is a little full.”

A snort and a low chuckle of familiar though tired executive amusement greeted that rather loaded statement.

Eyes narrowed with profound and long-suffering irritation, McGarry looked down and gave his friend a supremely sour look. “No comments from the peanut gallery.”

One Presidential eye opened. “Peanut gallery?”

“Yeah. As in annoying, sir.”

“Lucy?”

“Shut up.”

Butterfield shifted, becoming more uncomfortable by the minute. Most of the secret service had that reaction when these two started going at it. As the senior agent was doing now, most only half listened to the absurd byplay, wondering exactly where or when it would leave off and things could get back to normal.

_‘Back to normal?’_ He nearly _did_ smile openly at that thought. Having served under two previous sitting Presidents, Butterfield and his staff had quickly come to the realization that _nothing_ in the Bartlet administration could be considered normal.

Truthfully, most found it a refreshing, if slightly disconcerting, breath of fresh air.

Still, there was a time and place for everything and the President’s senior agent had a job to do. “Mr. McGarry?”

“Yeah, Ron?”

“I’m going to head forward. One of the hatches is clear of debris and I might be able to get it open.”

McGarry nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Caught up in the nightmare, he’d forgotten about that possibility. His fingers clutched the blanket in his hand, twisting the heavy cloth. They might be able to get one of the hatches open. But then what? What choices did they have? 

Two of them could leave and find relative safety. One couldn’t. And McGarry knew with the certainty of over forty years friendship what the man who _couldn’t_ leave would order them to do. 

One thing was certain. There was always a first time and McGarry had always wondered what it would be like to defy a direct executive order. 

Not waiting for an answer, some of the same thoughts chasing each other through his own mind, Butterfield crouched low and began to scramble back through the opening. 

“Ron?” McGarry called softly.

Pausing, Butterfield turned back. “Sir?”

“How long?”

Caught off guard by the question, knowing what the Chief of Staff wanted to hear in reply, Butterfield hesitated. What to tell him? The storm was still raging outside, thunder and lightning contemptuously joining the howling wind in an insane mockery of circumstance. He tried weighing the whole structure of events, to find something that would satisfy McGarry and not cause the trapped man any more anxiety or pain.

Reluctantly, he realized that a loaded silence was the only answer he could give.

“I understand,” McGarry said softly, accepting the unspoken answer and what he felt was the inevitable. Had he truly expected _anything_ to go right?

Unfortunately, it wasn’t an answer that Bartlet found in any way satisfying. “Answer him, Ron.”

“Mr. President…”

Bartlet opened his eyes and drilled the agent with a demanding glare. “Answer him!” he snapped, for the moment frustrated anger driving away the pain and demons haunting him.

Thunder and lightning flashed overhead and the President bit back a curse. He was starting to get just a _little_ tired of the ridicule being tossed at him like so much cheap stage decoration. A tiny, self-depreciating smile and he had to candidly admit that by now he should be used to it. 

Under Bartlet’s steady and unwavering scrutiny, Butterfield had no choice but to answer. “Under normal circumstances, given the location of several air bases…”

“Cut to the chase.”

“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes at the most.”

“But?”

Butterfield sighed heavily, though his expression remained as stoically blank as ever. “The storm, sir. Even with the locator beacons, any rescue crew is going to have to be able to _see_ the wreck.”

“And they can’t see us.” Assailed by a terrible sense of bitterness, Bartlet gave a choked, desperate laugh. What else was there left to do? “Thank you, Ron.”

“Sir.”  
  


The determination he heard in Butterfield’s voice gave Bartlet a strange, numbed comfort. He’d always been amazed at the man’s air of calm and self-confidence. Some things in this world never changed, or allowed to the world to change _them_.

Inclining his head towards the narrow opening leading forward, the President of the United States told his senior agent, “Go.”

Determined not to fail, Butterfield nodded and without further word scrambled through the gap.

Watching him go, McGarry felt a bit of that same resolve. This wasn’t over yet. Draping one of the blankets over his friend, he said firmly, “They’ll see us.”

“Always the optimist, Leo.”

“Me? An optimist?” McGarry’s brows rose with open amazement, caught off guard by the absurdity of that statement. “You really did bang your head a good one, didn’t you?”

“One of us has to be.”

McGarry’s mouth snapped shut, stunned by the obvious resignation, the glaring lack of humor in Bartlet’s voice that had been there only moments before. Not for the first time, he realized that the complex man he dared to call _friend_ was an ever changing and uncategorized mystery. He’d always wondered how much of the man’s cutting wit was simply a personal shield, or his way of shielding others.

Unable to form a reply, McGarry chose to ignore whatever was being implied and leaned over the prone man to tuck one of the blankets around his shoulders as best he could, the other behind his head for support. It wouldn’t help much, not in the position he was in, but the comfort would be as much psychological as it was physical. He cringed when his hand came away wet from under Bartlet’s shoulders, felt the cold, soaked fibers of his suit jacket heavy with moisture.

Holding his hand up to his eyes, something else struck him. Bringing his fingers closer to his face and wrinkling his nose, he caught it again. That smell. Faint and familiar, it once again began to clutch at some half forgotten memory. 

A shadow of annoyance crossed the President’s face when he got no response. “Leo…”

“Sir, please…” McGarry’s voice trailed off, trying desperately to put the odor in its proper place. It was important. Once, long ago, he’d known it. It was thin, heavily diluted with rainwater, but he _knew_ it…

Unused to being told to _shush,_ however indirectly, Bartlet opened his mouth to issue as scathing a rebuff as he could manage under the circumstances. Then the look on McGarry’s face registered, the absolute concentration. Lifting his head from the rough pillow, he reached out with his free hand and grabbed his friend's, felt the muscles of the man’s forearm tighten beneath the sleeve of his coat.

“What is it?”

For a brief moment, he saw McGarry close his eyes. Then he opened them and the flash of near panic he saw for a moment in their depths had Bartlet wishing he hadn’t asked. 

McGarry let out his breath and swore, “Aw, shit.”

A long, brittle silence stretched between the two men, far too long for Bartlet’s tastes. Blinking slowly in the near darkness, he let the moment draw out a beat longer, as much as he dared, then asked quietly, “Is it a secret? Or do I have to guess?”

McGarry felt as if a hand had closed around his throat. For a brief moment, he considered not telling the President, of hollering instead for Butterfield. But what good would it do? Neither the lie nor the secret service agent’s presence would change anything.

“It’s fuel, sir,” he answered with a calm detachment that left him wondering as to its source. “Aviation fuel. One of the tanks has ruptured. It’s leaking into the cabin.”

The President’s reaction to that revelation wasn’t exactly what McGarry had expected.

He laughed.

There was nothing hysterical about it, nothing bitter or cynical. For a confused moment McGarry couldn’t place it or the reason, but when he did he couldn’t help but laugh himself. It was a joke, a cruel, unending, twisted and _mean_ play on fate, but still a joke and they both had finally caught the punch line.

Wincing as his laughter broke off into a rough cough, Bartlet let his head fall back against the makeshift pillow. Sighing wearily, he offered his companion a tired smile. "It's all getting a bit ridiculous, isn't it, Leo?"

Truthfully, McGarry felt like hitting something. Ridiculous or not and in spite of himself, he chuckled and replied dryly, “I’m not about to argue with you, sir.”

“Is it bad?”

“It could be worse.”

The President blinked slowly, then asked very carefully, “How?”

“Do you want me to tempt fate and ask?” 

“Given my track record the last few years?” Bartlet’s mouth twisted wryly, “That _would_ be pushing it.”

Settling back against what remained of the bulkhead, McGarry put his arm around his old friend’s shoulders and gave a gentle snort of sympathetic agreement.  “There’s not much we can do about it.”

“Is that supposed to cheer me up?” 

“Does it?”

A short brittle laugh. “No.”

"Not much longer now, sir. The rescue teams must be nearly here by now.  Ron was right, if it weren't for the storm they probably would be here already, but all this heavy rain must be playing hell with visibility and flying conditions." 

Bartlet’s mouth pulled into a sour grin. “This is wisdom from a man who hasn’t flown a plane in nearly thirty years?” 

McGarry ignored the somewhat cynical presidential teasing with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances. He cocked his head slightly as the ever-present background creaking of the wreck suddenly increased in intensity.  "Wind seems to be picking up, too."

Prepared to accept being forced to stay awake but _not_ to do it meekly, Bartlet started to offer a reply when the wreck resettled itself with a sudden lurch. Clutching helplessly at the girder laying across his chest, he felt something move, tear at the leg he’d thought too cold and numb to feel anything anymore.  Bile rose in his throat at the agony and he arched his back, mouth opening in a wordless cry of pain.

McGarry clutched at him in panic, trying to hold him still, prevent him from damaging himself further.  _For God's sake, what now?_ "What is it?" 

The President subsided with a low hiss of pain. Through tortured gasps for precious air, he managed, "My leg…something's happening to my leg…" his voice broke off in mid-sentence and he arched up again in a spasm of agony.

"Ron!” McGarry bellowed, holding tight to Bartlet’s tense shoulders. He could barely hear his own voice over the sounds of the storm and the man’s tortured breathing. The roar of adrenaline in his ears nearly drowned out everything but the hammering beat of his own heart.

Butterfield slid under the overhang and hastily scrambled across the debris, adrenaline rendering him indifferent to the stabbing pain in his side and the new cuts as the sharp metal sliced through his hands and knees. Dropping down beside the Chief of Staff, he demanded breathlessly, "What?" 

"Leg".  McGarry was equally succinct, battered by the intense emotions this new crisis had engendered.

Butterfield seized the flashlight and directed its beam into the narrow gap between the girder and the President's body.  The wind's howling seemed to increase its derision and the creaking of torn metal added a counterpoint that almost drowned out the sound of the agent's hissed intake of breath.

"What's happening?"  McGarry supported his friend's head, reaching his hand around to press the palm against the President's forehead in a hopeless attempt at comfort.  The fingers of his other hand were being crushed between Bartlet's own as the man tried to ride out another wave of agony.

Butterfield sank back and rested his hand supportively on his charge's shoulder, squeezing lightly in empathy.  He briefly met the President's pain-glazed eyes in mute sympathy and apology for his inability to do his job and protect this man from harm.  He was rewarded with a faint smile of understanding before the President's eyes once again slid closed and he seemed to deflate, panting and exhausted.

Butterfield looked up to meet a gaze of helpless entreaty that mirrored his own emotions.  His expression darkened further and he said, "Wind and rain are giving us another problem besides merely delaying rescue. Add in mud and torn up trees, a position on a steep mountain ridge and it doesn't give us anything good." He waited for realization to dawn in the other man's eyes, and nodded curtly.  "The wreck is shifting."

McGarry shook his head in numbed disbelief.  This was just _too_ much. Maybe the President really _had_ been right about a divine Providence being out to get him. Events certainly seemed to be stacking up that way. "And when the wreckage moves…"

"…the spar is moving around in the wound, tearing it up." Butterfield finished the thought. "Mr. McGarry, it is further aggravating his injury, to say nothing of being painful beyond belief.  Add in the fact that we have a dangerous drop below the wreck site…”

McGarry’s head snapped up, giving the agent an incredulous look. “A drop? You’ve seen this?”

“No, sir. But…”

“Then how…”

“Leave him be, Leo,” a weak though still forceful voice grated out. Bartlet swallowed, then managed to offer with a hint of sarcastic humor. “He’s learning his lessons.”

McGarry blinked. “Sir?”

“What else _would_ there be below the wreck?”

“What else,” McGarry sighed. The logic, however twisted, was inescapable. Despite his fears, he felt an awful joy at those words. If Bartlet could still manage to point out the ridiculous, then all wasn’t completely lost. “Good point, Mr. President.”

Butterfield’s logic hadn’t been quite _that_ attuned to the unreasonable demands of fickle and spiteful fate, but rather to his last view of the ridge before they went down. But still, either point had been well made, if the one _was_ being somewhat paranoid. What else could they have expected?

He wondered briefly if that sort of thinking was contagious, before calmly pointing out the inevitable. “Mr. President, Mr. McGarry, we may not have the luxury of waiting here for rescue.”

That statement’s meaning wasn’t lost on McGarry, or the implications. "You mean, just pull him out?"  He shook his head in protest. "That's insane! What if we can't stop the bleeding?  And do you know how much that's going to hurt him?"

As if to underscore the irony of that concern the wreck shifted again and Bartlet suddenly let out another sharp cry, twisting helplessly under McGarry’s hands. The Chief of Staff watched as Butterfield added his support and tried to hold the President still. Dreadfully aware that it made little difference, he gave what small comfort he could, praying it would end quickly. Finally, and to his unspoken relief, he felt the man relax slightly, a sheen of perspiration breaking out anew on his pale features.

Bartlet licked dry lips and forced his eyes open to meet the worried gaze of the two men leaning over him, whose features evinced their own peculiar brand of agony.  He smiled unconvincingly and said, "Things just keep getting more and more interesting, don't they Leo?"  

The wreckage creaked again, and Bartlet tensed, drawing in his breath with a hiss in anticipation of yet another session of that hideous tearing, burning sensation. He relaxed slightly when this time it did not materialize.  "So…what's next?  Are you…" he closed his eyes and swallowed painfully at the prospect, "…going to haul me out of here?"  He smiled faintly up at his Chief of Staff.  "You know…I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm not sure I exactly relish the idea, even for the prospect of getting out of this box."

"It's just a last resort, Mr. President."  Butterfield spoke reassuringly; amazed that even now the man could find _something_ to joke about.  “Hopefully, the debris will stop moving and we can wait for the professionals to do it properly, and more comfortably for you."

"But you're afraid that may not be possible."  

It was a statement, not a question. Bartlet watched as both men exchanged troubled glances, blinking slowly and unable to offer any kind of hopeful rebuttal. The President's mouth curled wryly at the somewhat comic sight.  "No positive thoughts? Oh, fellas!  And after this truly impressive streak of luck we've been enjoying so far?"

McGarry regarded the trapped man with a touch of incredulity.  He would never, _never_ be fully prepared for the odd ways and times Josiah Bartlet’s sense of humor chose to manifest itself.  Still, he gladly seized on the momentary lessening of tension to offer his friend a genuine smile and a squeeze to the hand that had finally relaxed enough to release its crushing hold on his fingers.

Suddenly, the wind rose to a positive howl and the whole wreck creaked ominously.  All three men tensed in agonized anticipation.  

McGarry gasped in shock as he felt the entire cabin jerk and move slightly, before coming again to rest.  

His attention was wrenched back to his immediate surroundings by the screeching, groaning sound of shifting metal, followed by a cry of helpless rage from Butterfield and a frightened gasp of pain from Bartlet.  

McGarry saw to his horror that the debris on which the girder had been resting its full weight had moved and slid, causing the heavy metal bar to come down against the President's chest.  Bartlet was breathing in short gasping pants, restricted by the weight bearing down on him, and his eyes were wide with unshielded fear.  

Butterfield had his hands under the bar and was struggling valiantly to lift some of its weight off the man beneath.  McGarry flung himself forward to join efforts with the agent, but it was like trying to hold back an entire mountain face.  

The two men struggled in frantic silence, aware of the increasingly desperate and shallow breathing of the man at their feet, whose free hand pushed hopelessly at the weight pinning him down.

"Ron!"  McGarry blinked some of the perspiration from his eyes.  The moisture felt cold on his skin.  "What can we do?  He'll be crushed!"

Butterfield's lips were drawn back from his teeth in rage and physical effort.  He snatched a second to shake his head in despair.

_No!_   The word screamed inside McGarry's disbelieving mind.  He looked down at his friend.  Bartlet's respiration was growing ever more painful and strained.  His eyes were slits, and his hand now simply rested on the girder, bracing against it as if somehow attempting to banish its reality.

McGarry glanced up in terror as he felt the cabin shudder and jerk again.  He forced himself to look back down, sickly certain that he would see the girder had settled even further, crushing his friend's chest.

Instead, he found himself gaping stupefied at the sight before him.  Somehow, with the second shift, something in the tangled mass before him must have weighed down on one end of the girder, see-sawing it up into the air.  It still partly pressed down on Bartlet's side, but was now clear of his chest and torso.  

"Hurry!" Butterfield had dropped down to a crouch and slid his hand under the President's arm.  "Before it moves again!"

McGarry seized the man's other arm, but felt impelled to voice an objection.  "But … his leg."

"The lesser of two evils!  If that girder comes down on him again, we won't have to worry about the leg.  Now, move!"  Butterfield was at his most pragmatic, focused on removing his charge from the greater danger.

Following the agent’s lead, McGarry gritted his teeth and hauled back on the President's arm.  He heard Bartlet give out a bellowing cry of agony, then his head fell back and he went limp in McGarry's hands. 

Both men hauled him backwards frantically, finally clearing his body of the beam.  They dragged him back towards the entrance and Butterfield slipped under the overhang, reaching back to drag the limp body through the opening and out into the cabin.  

McGarry scrambled hastily out behind.

Butterfield eased the body into the angle formed by the cabin wall and the floor.  Bartlet was still and ashen and his leg was a bloody mess of torn material and flesh.  Grimly, the agent began to rip away the damaged trouser leg in an attempt to put pressure on the wound underneath.

"Compress…I need something to form a compress on the wound." Butterfield peeled back the sides of the rip in the material and carefully probed the damaged flesh underneath. 

At the touch, the President tensed, his eyes fluttering open, and groaned.

McGarry looked around blankly, then dived back under the overhang to snag one of the blankets he had wrapped around Bartlet.  Using the jagged edge of a piece of metal he started a tear and awkwardly ripped away a long strip of the thick material and handed it to Butterfield, who then began to wrap it swiftly around the President's thigh.  

"How bad does it look?" McGarry was almost afraid to ask.  He swallowed his nausea at the memory of what they had just done to his friend, and the tortured sound of Bartlet’s cry.

Butterfield was unbuckling his trouser belt and sliding it out of the loops.  Incredibly, the grimness of his features had eased slightly. He looked up at the Chief of Staff and actually gave him a small smile of reassurance.

"Unbelievable as it may be, I don't think it's critical. The bleeding's fairly heavy, but not excessive. I think I can slow it. The wound's pretty torn up, but doesn't look to be as deep as we feared. No major veins seem to be severed. There's a fair amount of muscle damage; I don't know what the prognosis will be there. At least he isn't in immediate danger of bleeding out." Butterfield paused to loop the belt over the blanket compress and, with a quick jerk, pull it tight.  "Still very painful though."

A sharp yelp of protest from the President as the belt tightened seemed to lend credence to that particular diagnosis.

"Sir?"  McGarry leaned forward, feeling the first real sense of hope in a long time.  The President was free of the debris, if not the wreck itself, and they were now in a position to do something, however little, about his injury.  Surely things were looking up?

Seeing the baleful expression just visible in his chief executive's blearily cracked eye, he wondered if he would shortly have to revise the injury count. Bartlet was still woozy and disoriented from cold and pain, but there was no mistaking that glint. His oldest friend was fighting mad.

"That's it!  That is absolutely _it_!" Bartlet angrily tried to hike himself up a little along the wall he was resting against, only to stop short with a groan as he jarred his leg. He paused for an instant to catch a pained breath, then let fly with all the pent-up fury, hurt and fear engendered by this ordeal.

Caught off guard by the strength and sheer ferocity of Bartlet’s outburst, McGarry drew back in stunned surprise. To say that his old friend’s reactions to any given situation were –at the _very_ least—unpredictable was an understatement. But _this_?  He could only stare wordlessly at the clearly enraged man, astonished and more than a bit uneasy. What followed next bordered on revelation.

The President of the United States was just getting started.

"I don't know what the hell I've done to piss You off recently, You malicious thug, but I can't think of _anything_ worth a vengeance on this scale!"

There was no mistaking the target of Bartlet's diatribe. The very elements seemed to calm momentarily as if impressed, despite themselves, at this mortal's challenge to Providence. 

"So I kept the MS a secret. I never deliberately set out to lie, never intended to hurt anyone. I just wanted some privacy, to avoid having people look at me and see the condition, not the man. Wanted to deny its existence. Was that hubris? If so, I've been paying for it ever since, and not just me but every one I care about.” Never one to keep his hands still when on a righteous roll, Bartlet’s left hand came down on the cabin floor with a resounding smack. “Isn't that enough for You?"

McGarry winced at the sound and shot an alarmed glance at Butterfield, whose attention seemed fully engaged in further tightening the bloodstained lining that was covering the President's head wound.  He couldn’t help but note that the agent was carefully avoiding direct eye contact with his charge. They both were.

Finding himself in a situation with no precedent, the Chief of Staff could only listen. On the one hand the evidence of mental awareness and energy on the President’s part relieved him. On the other, the display of uncharacteristically raw, naked emotion was disturbing. Bartlet was obviously running on sheer nerves and adrenaline brought on by pain and fear.  It was sustaining him for the moment, but McGarry dreaded the crash that would surely follow.

"All my life I've respected Your name, honored Your teachings," Bartlet continued to rant, although his voice was hoarse and his energy visibly beginning to flag. "I've kept Your Commandments; hell, yes, even the fourth and even _You_ have to acknowledge _that_ one wasn't easy."

The President’s oldest friend stirred in uneasy surprise.  McGarry felt more and more that he was eavesdropping on a conversation of which he had no part.  Clearly dazed and in discomfort, Bartlet was being unusually unguarded in his speech, and the implications he was garnering from this catharsis both confused and distressed McGarry. Adding it to the small store of impressions he had already gathered, he was getting a faint picture whose outline left him oddly reluctant to strain for detail.

He wasn’t even sure he _should_ stop it. And if so, how? 

Without looking up, Butterfield skillfully ducked one waving presidential hand and brought the tirade and McGarry's clear indecision to an end by bringing his own hand down gently on Bartlet’s shoulder. For the first time making eye contact, he waited for the man to take a deep breath and calm down. 

Blinking slowly, the President took that deep breath, added a few more for good measure and nodded.

McGarry relaxed as well.

Satisfied that his charge had replenished his oxygen supply, if not his emotional balance, Butterfield stopped just short of pleading and said, "Please, sir, take it easy. Try to relax.  We need you alert but getting worked up will only tire you out, to say nothing of causing your injuries to bleed more." As if in illustration, he gently dabbed with his fingertips at a small trickle of blood that had escaped from under the sodden compress on the President's head to run down his temple.  

Seeing the blood -- _his_ blood-- on the agent’s fingertips, reality reared its ugly head and the small world he was trapped in began to close around him. Bartlet drew another ragged gasp, grimacing and wrapping his arms around his chest. The girder might not have crushed him, but it had left a more than adequate reminder of how closely he had approached that fate. Even now the sharp pain across his ribs and sternum offered an almost tangible recollection of its presence, and filling his lungs was almost as difficult as when he had lain imprisoned beneath it.

Fury dying as the adrenaline in his system leveled off,Bartlet let his head fall back against the cabin wall and sighed wearily. Without the rage pumping through his veins, he was becoming more aware of the blinding throbbing in head and leg, and the dull ache that assailed him all over.  He regarded his Chief of Staff tiredly.

"I swear to God, Leo, I am _never_ taking a vacation again.  I don't care if I have to run the rest of this administration sleepwalking.” Acknowledging the absurd, a glint of dark humor flickered in his eyes. The accompanying laugh had a sharp edge to it. “Hell, why not?  The opposition claims that I do it with my brains dribbling out my ears."

McGarry winced at that off the cuff statement. That was one topic wherein he had never been able to find any humor, not even of the black nature his friend sometimes indulged in at his own expense. It was far too easy to visualize that possibility, the loss of a friend not through a clean ending but gradual mental degradation. 

It hadn’t happened yet, might _never_ happen, but just the very thought gnawed away at his spirit. 

The President easily read the unhappiness on the features that were as familiar to him as his own.  Reading his mind was just as easy. McGarry had proved even more reluctant to accept the possibility of that grim future than Bartlet himself, and he felt a twinge of guilt for having brought it up, however casually.  Drawing on his rapidly depleting inner reserves, he offered his frienda whimsical smile.

"Cheer up, Leo. You guys got me out of that makeshift coffin, _and_ with my leg still relatively intact."  He brought his hand down on the limb, and then hissed as the incautious gesture reminded him that the crucial qualifier had been _relatively_. "Assuming my little attack of snippiness just now didn't totally queer our pitch with fate, we're over the worst."

McGarry couldn't help but grin in reply.  " _Snippiness_?"  He arched an eyebrow in amused query.

Bartlet smirked. "That's how Mrs. Landingham would dignify even the most righteous ranting on my part." His smile faded as he reflected on the memory of his deceased secretary, who had known him even longer than his Chief of Staff and had done so much to influence the man he had become. "I think it was her way of reminding me that there is a fine line between constructive anger and self-indulgent rage."

McGarry sobered in turn. Of all the bad tidings he had been forced to bear to his friend in recent months, the news of that indomitable old lady's death, that grand _dame_ , had been the worst. He was pulled from those dark memories by the sound of Butterfield patiently clearing his throat. 

"Yes Ron?"  The President peered up from under the makeshift bandage crossing his brow. The usually expressionless agent had a surprisingly puzzled look on his face. 

“Sir…” Butterfield paused, clearly at a loss as how to express himself. Finally, he asked with perfect deadpan composure, “ _Queer our pitch?”_

McGarry’s mouth twitched with ill concealed disgust at the question and he shot the President one of the dirtiest looks he’d thrown the man in three years. “He’s been hanging around Marbury again.”

“Oh my God.” For a brief moment a look of absolute horror crossed Butterfield’s face, to be quickly replaced with one of calculating resolve. “Not on my watch,” he growled under his breath.

Neither Bartlet –who was laughing as best he could with bruised ribs, nor McGarry –who, by the look of loathing on his face Butterfield figured had just come to the realization that _he_ had clearly understood the euphemism, heard his ill advised grumbled oath. 

A situation the stoic agent considered all well and good. He _did_ have a reputation to maintain after all and eccentric ambassadors _were not_ going to ruin it. Not if he had anything to do about it.

Getting back to the business at hand, he said, "Mr. President, if you have no objection, I'd like to ask for Mr. McGarry's assistance in forcing the forward hatch." Once again professional to the core, the agent had been assessing both the storm levels and the slight rocking of the wreck and was not happy with his conclusions. "Now that you’re free of the debris, I think we should seriously address the question of evacuating the craft."

McGarry looked up in sudden trepidation as the wind's howling increased, amazed that he had managed to forget even for an instant those heart stopping shifts from earlier.  He scrambled to his feet with alacrity.  "Ron's right, sir.  Now that we can move you we need to get you out of here while our luck continues to…"

He broke off abruptly and fell to his knees as the cabin shuddered and bucked beneath him. Cursing, he grabbed what was left of a nearby seat as the wreck started to roll, then slide at a sickening angle. He heard the sound of branches snapping, rocks scraping against the battered fuselage.

Butterfield seized the President's shoulders and pressed him back against the wall, leaning over him protectively. For a few seemingly endless seconds, the wreckage continued to slide sickeningly downward and he gritted his teeth in agonized anticipation. _Not on my watch!_ He held on to that thought, determined to do his duty.

All the while, the thunder raged outside. The lightening danced and rain beat against the wreck.

Their progress finally halted an eternity later. The remains of the craft continued to creak and sway gently but for that instant final disaster seemed to have been postponed. Although it was several long moments before any of those inside dared to move.

Finally, Butterfield gingerly eased himself off the President and looked down at his main responsibility in concern.  

Bartlet's eyes were closed, his mouth drawn into tense lines.  His face appeared even paler, if that were possible, and he seemed to be holding his breath.  Feeling the weight lift off him and realizing that their motion had stopped, he cautiously opened his eyes and exhaled explosively.

Looking up, he met McGarry's anxious gaze. The Chief of Staff’s complexion was pasty and he was panting slightly from strain and tension. Bartlet cast an importuning eye heavenwards. "I suppose saying I'm sorry would be classed as _‘_ _too little too late’_?" he murmured, only half-ironically.

A sudden snort of involuntary amusement from his friend assured him that he had at least succeeded in one of his objectives. Now it remained to see if fate had a similarly receptive sense of humor.  

The President gestured to his security chief.  "Ron?  Forcing that hatch is sounding more and more like a plan I can get on side with. What say you go see what you can do?  Leo," he turned his head towards McGarry.  "Do you feel up to giving him a hand?"


	2. Frightened Peace, A 2

**A Frightened Peace**

**by:** Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew 

**Disclaimer:** Aaron Sorkin owns everything

**Characters:** Jed, Leo, Ron Butterfield and Abbey

**Category:** Action/Adventure, thrills, chills, angst and anything else we could throw into the emotional hopper. Hey, nobody told us we couldn’t, so we did  <VBEG>.

**Rating:** TEEN. Violence, emotionally driven language -although we think you’ll agree the characters are more than entitled to a little colorful venting by that point  <G>\- and a few minor adult issues.

**Spoilers:** Mostly ‘The Two Bartlets’ and ‘Night Five’, although we’ve managed to drop some hints about a few other things along the way. You’ve been warned.

**Author's Note:** We don’t own these characters. Aaron Sorkin and his evil minions do. Like many a fan fic author before us, we claim a momentary lapse of reason and all resulting ‘borrowings’ are a result of that slight mental aberration. Other than some questionable fun, we’ve made no profit from this exercise in literary mayhem and don’t plan on doing so in future. However, the words contained herein are ours. We hunted, captured, wrestled them to the ground and beat them into submission all on our own.

We’d like to dedicate this story to Sam -who opened the door for us with her own wonderful adventure fic- and Sheila, same reasons. Both have offered support and encouragement that can not be counted in words. And girls, it ain’t over yet <G>.

**Summary:** Nobody, least of all Jed, is having a very good day. As it always happens, things go from bad to worse in very short order.

* * *

McGarry inclined his head in acknowledgement of both the request and the unspoken regret that Bartlet himself could offer no constructive assistance.  With a quick smile to his friend, who was attempting to settle himself securely against the wall, he cautiously followed the agent towards the hatch.  

The last slide had caused the cabin to roll slightly, so the hatch was no longer set at quite so precipitous an angle. However both men were still obliged to brace themselves with one hand in order to avoid sliding back down the angle of the floor while they battered at the warped hatchway.  

McGarry was making way for a particularly heartfelt assault by Butterfield on the hatch when overhead a familiar, _booming_ roar that momentarily overrode the ever-present thunder suddenly drew his attention. His hand closed excitedly on his companion's arm, interrupting the next enthusiastic shoulder charge.  _"Listen."_

Startled, Butterfield did just that, grateful for the brief reprieve and using it to wait for the now ever present stitch in his side to abate. Straining, for a moment all he could hear was the steady fury of the storm. Then, there it was, utterly unmistakable.  Feeling an almost unbearable weight begin to ease from his shoulders, he shared an unbridled smile of sheer relief with the Chief of Staff. He then turned to share the good news with the man lying on the other side of the cabin and frowned at what he saw.

Bartlet had his head back against the bulkhead, eyes closed. One hand rested lightly on his wounded leg, the other lay limply at his side. He was asleep, or as close as Butterfield was going to allow him.

"Mr. President?"

"Huh?"  The response was drowsy.  Damp, chilled clothing, wounds and aftermath from the emotional release of earlier were making it harder and harder for Bartlet to accede to his companion’s wishes and stay alert.  "What is it?"

"Jets." Butterfield waited until he was sure he had the man's full attention before continuing. "There are fighter jets circling our position. We've been spotted. The medevac helicopters have a location to home in on now. Help will be here very soon."

The news took a moment to sink into Bartlet's exhausted and stressed mind, and then he looked up, almost afraid to hope.  The beaming grin on McGarry's face was worth more than any number of spoken reassurances, and he offered up a tentative smile in return.

The brief moment of relief was broken when McGarry's face abruptly seemed to dip in his field of vision. Bartlet essayed a grunt of protest as his head bounced against the bulkhead behind him and he suddenly found himself almost fully reclining and beginning to slide down an ever-growing slope in the floor.  

Above him, McGarry and Butterfield grabbed hastily for handholds in order to prevent themselves from sliding gracelessly down the steep gradient as the cabin rolled again, pitching up the angle of the floor even further.

Hanging on for dear life, McGarry heard a sudden pop and crackling, and then a muffled exclamation of pained exasperation from Butterfield.  Twisting his head, he saw wisps of smoke issuing from around the edges of a panel on the far bulkhead a few yards from where Bartlet lay.

"That last roll must have pulled loose some wiring,one of the batteries must still be hot."  The secret service agent was releasing a fire extinguisher from its housing next to the hatchway with unhurried efficiency.  "I'd better get it out before any sparks have the opportunity to fan into flame…" He turned and blinked, unexpectedly finding himself addressing an empty space.

At the word _sparks_ the Chief of Staff had given a panic-stricken gasp and released his handhold to slide in ungainly haste down the incline, fetching up almost on top of the startled President. Attempting the difficult task of interposing his body between Bartlet and the panel while simultaneously dragging his protesting victim further away, he yelled over his shoulder to the bemused agent, "Put it out!  For God's sake, get it out _now_!"

Confused, but responding to the unmistakable sense of urgency in his voice, Butterfield began his own equally rapid but rather more controlled descent of the incline. Reaching the panel, he unleashed the extinguisher over it, and then paused to rip it away one-handed before directing the remaining contents of the cylinder into the circuitry behind to ensure that no danger remained.  Putting down the empty extinguisher, he turned to face the two men.

McGarry, finding it difficult to drag the nearly limp body of a full-grown man at any speed, had abandoned the attempt and instead flattened himself over the form beneath him to shield it.  Judging from the general tone of the muffled remarks issuing from under him, the President was less than happy about this quixotic gesture.

"Leo, get the hell off of me!  Now!"  A lucky thrust with an elbow, and a slightly winded grunt from McGarry granted Bartlet his wish and his self-appointed protector lifted his weight off him. Rolling over awkwardly, and uncertain as to whether to clutch at his abused ribs or his leg --to which McGarry in the course of his frantic lunge had administered a fairly hefty kick-- the President glowered up at his friend.  

"What," he inquired with strained patience, "did you think you were doing?"

McGarry returned the look with heat,riding his own adrenaline high. "Didn't you hear Ron?" he hissed. "Or have you forgotten what effect a spark could have in here right now? And what about _you_? You were only a few feet away and your clothes are soaked in the stuff!"

He almost bit through his tongue as he watched Bartlet's features freeze and heard his friend draw in a short choking breath. Impulsively, he reached out to rest a hand on the President's upper arm, squeezing it gently in regret. Always the one to remind the senior staff when to _think_ before speaking, McGarry found himself in the unenviable position of having failed to do just that.

"Mr. President, I'm sorry.  That was thoughtless…” 

McGarry's apology was curtailed by the sound of an ominously clearing throat behind him. He could have sworn it sounded like a growl.He turned and found himself almost skewered by the glare the secret service agent was directing at him. He had sometimes wondered what it would take to make the unflappable Butterfield lose it. Wincing, he now came to the conclusion that some questions were better left unanswered, especially when you yourself were the unwitting catalyst.  

"Mr. McGarry.” Butterfield's tone was flat, but his eyes burned with the fury of a man who had had one too many curve balls flung at him by a malicious fate this day. "Would there by any chance be some details you need to fill me in on?"

The Chief of Staff couldn't help himself; he actually gulped before summoning up his voice to respond. "Earlier, just before we had to pull the President out …” he paused, then took a deep breath and completed his explanation in a rush. "I realized that his clothes were soaked in aviation fuel as well as rainwater. One of the fuel tanks is leaking into the cabin."

Offering a tentative smile of any kind at this point would have been only one more nail in his coffin, so McGarry didn’t even bother to try. He was starting to have just a bit more sympathy for the President and his caution around this man.

"So." Butterfield's voice was beginning to rise, the volume slowly increasing with each carefully uttered syllable. "You knew that we had highly flammable fuel leaking into an unstable area where grating metal or damaged wiring could ignite a spark that might start an inferno, _and you didn't see fit to mention this fact to me?_

McGarry flinched back from the sheer volume of that last outraged bellow, banging his head a good one against the bulkhead in the process. Wincing and at a complete loss for words, he stared up at Butterfield helplessly. To try to explain that he had felt it would change nothing, or that there had simply been no time as they lurched from one crisis to the next, sounded rather feeble in the face of such incandescent fury.

He felt an elbow digging into his ribs, then the unmistakable voice of his friend and President accusing him, “Way to piss him off, Leo.”

If McGarry had felt it safe to take his eyes off the still glowering Butterfield, he’d have given Bartlet a good fielding return. Right now, self preservation dictated he keep his attention focused on the bloodied man towering over him.

As much as he was enjoying watching McGarry squirm, the President decided --rather wisely he thought-- to break the deadlock.  Slightly startled himself by his security chief's blow-up, he raised a calming hand, catching the man's attention.  

Butterfield whipped his head around, and then hastily modified his glare when he met the tolerant eye of his chief executive.

"Don't blame Leo, Ron. He didn't intend to keep anything important from you." Bartlet tapped the other man's knee to emphasize his point.  "A lot of stuff happened very fast.  And, well, I haven't exactly been making things any easier for either of you."  He waited until he saw the agent's shoulders sag slightly and the anger fade from his features, then continued. "But I would suggest that your point about our not being able to afford to simply sit and wait for rescue is well taken. We have more to worry about now than a very short, unscheduled flight if this heap of junk decides to shift again."

This timely reminder galvanized Butterfield into action. With a final, accusing glare at McGarry, he turned to scramble back up towards the hatch without even his usual courteous acknowledgement of his charge's edicts.

McGarry began to follow, then halted in his tracks at the sound of the President's voice.  He saw Butterfield also turn to listen.

"One last point, fellas," Bartlet's voice was low and his gaze intense. "I don't want any pointless heroics.  I know our chances are a lot better now you got me out from under that crap, but I'm still not going anywhere fast. You will be closer to the hatch and mobile.  If our luck runs out and we take fire…” he closed his eyes and swallowed convulsively at the possibility. A deep breath and he continued, “…we're going to go up like a Molotov cocktail. I don’t want you to risk yourselves needlessly. Get out. Fast."

Seeing the two incredulous faces regarding him, his voice gained a distinct edge. "Do you understand me?"

Butterfield regained his voice first. "Sir, I took an oath …"

"And I'm giving you an order!" Bartlet snapped. "As your President, I am directly ordering you both to take no unnecessary risks to your lives." He glared as he saw his two companions exchange decidedly mutinous looks.  "Tell me you understand that order."

McGarry snorted. "You have an interesting definition of _unnecessary risk_.  No."  He held up a hand at his friend's attempt to interrupt. "Our oaths of loyalty and our duty aside, what the _hell_ makes you think we would ever obey an order like that?"  He regarded his friend's averted head and softened his voice.  "Jed, we've been friends for more than half our lives. You're closer to me than a brother.  I know you wouldn't leave me, as surely as I know you never really expected me to obey you."

Bartlet tilted his head to look up at his Chief of Staff.  "I know, I know", he sighed.  "But I had to try, Leo.  I don't want to be the cause of anything happening to you."

McGarry looked up at Butterfield and jerked his head slightly. The agent took the hint and silently moved to resume his attack on the hatch.  Urgent as that task was, this was a conversation McGarry was determined not to leave unfinished. There had already been too many such conversations in recent times.He’d never had the chance to finish them and this time he wasn’t about to lose the momentum.

He settled down awkwardly next to where Bartlet lay slumped against the angle of the bulkhead wall, his injured leg stretched out in front of him, and an arm gently cradling his ribs.  The end of the temporary bandage on the President's head had come adrift of the tiepin during their recent scramble, and McGarry attempted clumsily to secure the frayed end back in place.  He sat back on his heels, shaking his head in disgust at his efforts.  

Bartlet gave him a quick grin. "Cheer up, Leo. You were never Boy Scout material anyway."

"You on the other hand I'll just bet were a natural," McGarry countered sourly. He regarded his old friend gravely. "Sir, why did you even bring it up? You know we wouldn't leave you here."

Cold, wet and exhausted,Bartlet gave him a weary look. "I know, Leo. That was never my fear. I just didn't want to lose you." He closed his eyes and turned his face away. "Sometimes lately I think that I've done nothing but endanger or lose all those things that really matter to me since I took this office.  Oh, don't get me wrong; I'm grateful for all the opportunities it's granted me.  But it's taken its dues...”

_And whose fault was that?_ McGarry’s stomach knotted, guilt raising its ugly head. _He’d_ convinced Bartlet to run, to take on the job and pay those dues. “Jed…”

“Let me finish, Leo.” There was steel in his voice. 

McGarry almost rebelled, but something told him to simply listen. Jed Bartlet didn’t need an advisor; he needed a friend, someone to _talk_ to, one man to another. Sadly, he realized it had been a long time since they’d just sat and talked.

Bartlet had settled back against the bulkhead, his gaze turning inwards. "I put Zoey and Charlie at risk because of who I am. We nearly lost Josh that night. They tried to ruin you because you were my closest advisor.” A choking, bitter grunt that never quite made it to a laugh, “I _did_ lose Dolores. And now with the MS, we don't know what kind of fall out everyone may experience." 

Sighing, he looked up and the last traces of resistance vanished. His eyes were anguished.  "I'm not even sure that it won’t cost me Abbey, and that's not just whining on my part Leo. That prospect frightens me more than anything else."

McGarry struggled to find a response. "Surely you don't really believe that all those things are your fault?" Even as he said them, he knew the words were empty and of little comfort.

He should have known Bartlet would find _something_ to latch on to, a thread of dark humor directed at himself.

The President smiled crookedly. "Nah. I've got a pretty healthy ego, Leo, but it's not that inflated. Intellectually, I know most of those things were outside my control, or else the result of the actions of others. Except for Abbey. That I really have handled badly. And that scares me. I was stupid, and stubborn.  Yes, I know", slightly annoyed at his friend's quiet snigger. "Nothing exactly new about that revelation.  It's just that lately I've become so tired of it all."

"Sir, you've been fighting a great many battles on a variety of fronts recently. It's natural to be tired, especially when you also haven't been sleeping. And depressed.”McGarry sobered. It was pointless to try and deny the harsh truths Bartlet had uttered. It was an argument his years of friendship assured him he would lose. There _was_ a future though.“But it's going to pass. I'm certain of that. The staff may have been shocked and disappointed, but they still have faith in you. They put their trust and their support behind you. And deep down you know that Abbey does too."

Bartlet gave him a grateful smile, and grimaced slightly as he tried to shift position.  

McGarry leaned forward to ease his friend upright.  As he drew back he again caught that faint but now utterly unmistakable smell on the man's wet clothing and it reminded him both of the continuing precariousness of their position, and of another more personal concern.  He eyed the President uneasily, unsure of whether or not to broach the subject.

"Sir?  How are you doing?  I mean, I know we got you out of that rubble, but we're still not free, and I happen to know that claustrophobia _isn't_ your only problem." Watching the muscles of his friend's jaw tense and the lines of strain in his face deepen, McGarry regretted bringing it up.  Leaning forward, he laid a hand on the injured man's arm in an effort to provide a reassuring presence.  

To his surprise, he felt the tendons under his hand relax slightly, and Bartlet gave a short laugh. It was a dry, cynical sound McGarry couldn’t quite place.

"You mean the fuel danger? As in _poof?_ " Snapping his fingers on the last word, he shook his head in gentle amusement at his friend's worried nod.  "Leo, can I be honest with you?  Right now, I'm simply don't have the energy to support more than one phobia at a time."  

The worry on McGarry's features faded, but only slightly. "You feeling okay?" he inquired anxiously.  "Not going to have another attack?"

 

The President let his head fall back with a weary sigh, and smiled tightly at his companion. "No, I don't think so. Oh it's still there, Leo, scratching away at the back of my mind, but I think I've managed, if not to control it, to at least achieve a sort of …” he paused to grope for the right words.  "…frightened peace."

Seeing his friend's puzzled and not overly reassured expression, he quoted in a low voice, " _So shaken as we are, so wan with care; Find we a time for frightened peace_."

McGarry's face cleared and he nodded, understanding the sentiment even if he couldn't quite place the quote.  He gave Bartlet's shoulder a quick squeeze.  "You gonna be okay now?  Only I really should help …"

"Go", Bartlet interrupted him, jerking his head in the direction of the hatch, where Butterfield seemed to finally be making some progress. Judging by the satisfied sound of the occasional muttered exclamation that drifted down towards them, the agent was taking out a few of his repressed aggressions on the unyielding metal.

Oddly loath to leave his friend, McGarry gave the supine man's shoulder one last pat, and then turned away to negotiate the slope behind him. Slipping, sliding and uttering muffled curses, the Chief of Staff managed to scramble up to Butterfield's side.  

"How's it coming?" He demanded breathlessly, anchoring himself in position next to the hatchway.

The agent spared him a brief glance of cautious satisfaction. "Not so bad. I've managed to make some real progress here.  With luck, another couple of minutes should see the hatch clear." He paused momentarily, hanging on as the wreck rocked slightly, before continuing grimly and with more than a touch of exasperated disgust, "And not a moment too soon, I'd say. I think our time is running out."

Senses straining nervously as he attempted to gauge the ferocity of the storm and the instability of their position, McGarry could only agree. Leaning back slightly to allow Butterfield space to wield the metal bar he was using to lever away the hatch, he glanced back down towards the President.  Worry clouded his eyes at what he saw.

Bartlet's eyes were closed. Apparently he had finally lost the battle with exhaustion and fallen into a light doze. Deciding that a few moments respite from tension could not hurt, McGarry didn't attempt to wake him. 

He gazed across the cabin at his friend, taking the opportunity to really study him for the first time since this nightmare had begun. Taking in the pale, bruised face, bloodstained head bandage and injured leg, he felt a sick fear begin to form in the pit of his stomach. Looking at the steep slope that separated them, and remembering his own difficulty in traversing it, the apprehension rose into his throat.

"Ron."  

McGarry's voice sounded strained and Butterfield turned to regard him with curiosity, and some small degree of impatience. The bottom corner of the hatch had finally yielded to his ministrations and come away from its housing. The agent was convinced that just a few more wrenches on his improvised lever would see the entire thing fall away, leaving their exit clear.  Given his own waning strength and energy, he was naturally reluctant to defer that moment, however briefly.  But the other man's expression held his attention and he waited for him to continue.  

When the man remained silent, he prompted somewhat impatiently,"Mr. McGarry?"

The Chief of Staff swallowed; feeling a childish reluctance to voice his fear, as if articulating it would somehow give it life. "The President." He gestured down towards the fitfully sleeping man. "He pegged the situation pretty good earlier, you know. About not being very mobile. Ron, what exactly are we going to do when that hatch finally opens? There's no way he can manage that climb by himself, we can barely make it on our own.  And you…”

Butterfield’s eyes narrowed, tightening his grip around the bar in his hands and daring McGarry to finish his thought.

Not about to let him dodge the issue this time, McGarry’s answering gaze hardened in return. “Don’t tell me it’s _nothing_. I’ve seen you. You’re hurt.”

“It doesn’t matter. _I_ don’t matter.”

“He’d argue that one with you,” McGarry pointed _that_ truth out calmly, blithely ignoring the warning threat barely hidden in the agent’s angry tone and gaze. “What is it? Broken ribs?”

“Cracked…maybe.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you?”

“I’ll manage.” Despite his well-trained reserve, more than a hint of exasperation tinged Butterfield’s voice. Turning back to the hatch, he shoved his improvised lever into the widening crack. “It’s what I do.”

“You can’t lift, and I certainly can’t do it alone.”

A grunt as he pulled angrily on the lever, equal parts pain and frustration, was the agent’s only response. The ensuing silence clearly forbade any more questions.

McGarry knew how to take a hint. “Fine,” he muttered, finding very little reassurance in Butterfield’s stoic attitude. It was starting to get on his nerves and wasn’t helping to calm the growing anxiety in the pit of his stomach. The nightmare just kept getting worse.

“Then how are we going to get him up here?" he demanded hotly.

When his companion did not immediately rush in with the rebuttal he had hoped for, McGarry felt the dread climb even higher. Defying both executive authority and his friend's wrath had been one thing, a danger he could face with equanimity. But the idea that, after all that had happened, they might still fail at the final, _literally_ insurmountable obstacle, left him cold with fear.

" _We'll_ manage." Emphasizing the plural, Butterfield's voice was low, fearful of disturbing the dozing subject of their council. Acknowledging McGarry’s concerns as much as he dared, he continued, “There are still blankets in the lockers by our seats. We can construct some kind of rope to help him up."

Gripping the bar in his hand tighter, his voice hardened. "I just know that I intend to get him out of here. I'm not leaving without him."

McGarry regarded him intently, startled and considerably touched by the passionate tone of that pledge. The security chief's expression was a study in unyielding determination. The Chief of Staff felt the tension in his stomach un-knot a little and he closed his hand briefly on the other's forearm in a gesture of appreciation and unspoken agreement.

Butterfield grunted noncommittally,turning his attention back to the hatchway and thrusting the lever into the newly created gap. Metal groaned in protest. He did it again and the hatch shifted slightly. Drawing in a deep breath, he ignored the pain in his abused side and threw his full weight behind the lever. With a suddenness that catapulted him into McGarry's outstretched arm and nearly sending them both crashing down the precipitous slope, the hatch tore away and dropped from sight.  

Steadying themselves, the two men instinctively swung back to avoid the rain sheeting in through the exposed hatchway. The sounds of the storm were now magnified, mingling with the distant roar of fighter planes still circling their position to direct the expected rescue teams. 

Sharing a grin of pure triumph with McGarry, Butterfield grimaced and heaved himself up slightly over the exposed rim to peer through the hatchway at their surroundings.  

Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the rain sheeting in through the hatchway, McGarry heard the sound of a barely stifled curse that bordered on the obscene drifting back down. It reminded him that there was still very little about their plight to encourage complacency. 

"How's our situation?" he inquired, dread and hope at the possible answer warring for the dominant position in his emotions.

"Not good.”Butterfield eased himself back inside the cabin, features once again returned to their seemingly standard level of austerity. “The drop is there, just as we surmised, and it's a beauty." Eyes darting around the remains of the cabin, making note of whatever was available, he calculated their options swiftly. "The rain has softened the ground and we're on a steep slope. I could see patches of soil and trees sliding gradually even during that brief glance. One such slide hits us and over we go." 

Coming to a decision, he scrambled down and across the surviving seats and began to root in the lockers. "Those rescue teams have to be only minutes away but I'm not waiting for them."  

Emptying the lockers of their remaining blankets and producing a small pocket-knife he looked up at McGarry. "We're going to secure a make-shift rope and use it to help the President reach the exit."

Apprehension, now a familiar though unwelcome acquaintance, raised its head again.  McGarry swallowed, then once again carefully made his way down to his dozing friend.  Reaching his destination, he gently shook one executive shoulder.  "Mr. President?"

"Umph!"

Forewarned by the memory of his earlier efforts at waking this man, McGarry was able to duck a wildly brandishing arm.  He reflected that he would have to see if it were possible to award Charlie danger money for certain unforeseen hazards that his job as body man to Josiah Bartlet seemed to attract.  

"Wakey, wakey sir.  Time to go."

Shivering slightly, Bartlet focused groggily on his right hand man. "Go? You got the hatchway open?"

"Yes, sir.  And Ron is of the opinion that the sooner we evacuate you the better. I tend to agree with him on that point. Our present position is insecure, to put it kindly."

"Evacuate me?" Bartlet grimaced as he stiffly attempted to sit upright. One hand clutching at his injured leg, he said dryly, "Leo, I hate to rain on your parade but how are you planning on getting me from here to there? Bear in mind that I saw your own progress, and mine will be even less agile."

"Not to worry."  McGarry called on his considerable political prowess to project an air of confident unconcern. "Ron's got it under control." He _hoped_ Butterfield had it under control. Never one to feel comfortable in situations out of his power, he was putting his faith in the secret service agent’s level-headed determination.

“I’m not blind, Leo,” Bartlet’s voice was calm, his gaze steady on his friend’s troubled features. “Ron’s hurt. He’s not going to be dragging me around by the scruff of my neck _this_ time. And you…”

“What about me?”

“Done a lot of bench presses lately?”

“No more than you. God, we’re a pair.” A sad smile pulled at the corner of his lips and despite the situation there was a trace of laughter in McGarry’s voice, mingled with the ever-present worry and fear. “Trust Ron, sir. He’s got it covered.”

He turned his head at a soft _thud_ , to see a bulky, crude rope stretching down from the hatchway across the steeply inclining cabin floor to within a few feet of their position.  Turning back, he met the President's incredulously raised eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders helplessly.  "Well, sir, if you have any _better_ ideas, we're more than happy to take them into committee."

From somewhere up above, a snort and a growled, single worded expletive voiced one man’s exasperated opinion of the whole democratic process.

"Nah." Bartlet sighed, managing a tight-lipped smile. "I don't have time for you to argue my proposal and tear it apart before submitting the remains to a vote." He struggled into a sitting position. "How are we going to do this?"

Carefully negotiating the debris, Butterfield slithered down beside them. Breathing heavily past the stitch in his side and apology darkening his eyes, he said, "Mr. President, I'm afraid that there's no way we can navigate the slope ourselves and still take your weight. Hence the rope.” 

His explanation was clear and succinct, if delivered a bit dryly. He knew it was out of character for him, but somehow being confined with these two men had removed a few of the professional barriers he’d taken great pains to erect. “I'm going to give you a leg up until you can reach the end, then I'm afraid that you're going to have to pull yourself up along the floor hand over hand."

The President looked at McGarry reproachfully. " _That's_ your plan?"

McGarry shrugged helplessly and pointed an accusing finger at Butterfield. “ _His_ plan. I’m just a passenger here.”

Watching the play of emotions flash across Butterfield’s face, Bartlet realized he had very little choice in the matter. It _was_ the best they could come up with. Still, he managed a cranky growl, “I’m too old for this.”

McGarry’s brows rose dubiously. “ _You’re_ too old?”

Not even bothering to dignify that with an answer, Bartlet sighed and shook his head, then extended his hands to both men to help him upright. "Well, let's get it over with."

"Mr. President." Butterfield carefully leaned his charge forward until he was lying against the steep angle of the floor.  He gestured to McGarry, who hastily scrambled up to reach the end of the rope, and watched as he braced himself there in readiness. 

Sparing one last look of concern for his charge, he asked, "Now, sir?"

At Bartlet's affirmative nod, he gritted his teeth and stooped, linking his fingers under the man's undamaged leg. As torn muscles protested violently, Butterfield stifled a cry of pain and boosted him up across the steep angle of the floor towards the waiting Chief of Staff.

Bartlet let out an agonized grunt as his chest protested being dragged over the rough surface, and his injured leg dangled limply behind him. Straining upwards, he reached for McGarry's outstretched hand.  

Holding the makeshift rope, McGarry stretched down with his free hand and succeeded in closing his fingers on his friend's wrist.  Hauling back with all his strength, he managed to drag the President up the few feet necessary to allow him to seize the rope in both hands.  Panting slightly, he checked his friend's grip was secure before releasing him.  

"Alright sir?"

Bartlet's hands were white on the rope, and his head rested on his outstretched arms.  He raised it slightly to give his Chief of Staff a tight smile. "Yeah, Leo. Let's get out of here."

The President took a deep breath and grasped the rope tightly as Butterfield clambered up and across the debris on his other side. The agent’s presence alongside, with McGarry above, was all the incentive he needed.Slowly and painfully, he commenced hauling himself upward hand over hand, his right leg trailing uselessly. The not so idle thought occurred to him that if he’d got out from behind a desk a bit more often this whole thing might _not_ seem so impossible.

The two men on either side of him could offer little more than moral support. Any attempt to allow him to rest by taking his full weight risked sending them tumbling back down the slope.  Breathing heavily, the exertion bringing an unnatural flush to his pale face and causing his head wound to pound in time with his heart, Bartlet struggled upwards in unrelenting silence.

"Just a few more feet, sir."  McGarry spoke encouragingly, shooting a nervous glance at Butterfield.  

The President gave no sign of having heard him, eyes unfocused and face strained as he concentrated all his energy on the task of placing one hand over the other.  Suddenly, the tension on his limbs was relieved as strong arms encircled his shoulders and pulled him up the last couple of feet to the sill of the hatchway.  

He felt the rain and wind on his face and dimly, through the blood pounding in his ears he heard Butterfield murmur reassuringly "I've got you, sir.  Well done."

Feeling driving rainwater mingling with the perspiration on his cheeks, Bartlet sagged back weakly against the chest of his security chief, who was holding him firmly on the lip of the sill. He opened his eyes to meet McGarry's anxious gaze and saw the other man's expression lighten in relief. Summoning up his energy, he gave him a weak nod.  

Bartlet was surprised to see the man’s eyes widen and the color drain from his face, until he realized his friend's gaze was directed over his shoulder. 

"Uh, Ron …" Unable to clearly verbalize his emotions, McGarry waved a frantic hand.

Wincing at the sudden movement, the secret service agent twisted to look over his shoulder at the hillside behind him. What he saw caused him to utter a heartfelt, “ _Shit!_ ” Turning swiftly back to the man in his arms and grunting as he hauled him to his feet,he said briskly, "Mr. President, we're going to have to get out right now."

"What?"  Bartlet found himself already being manhandled into position on the edge of the sill. Looking down at the drop of over ten feet to the hillside below the hatchway he balked. He still hadn’t looked over his shoulder, although from the looks on McGarry and Butterfield’s faces the following question just _begged_ to be asked, "Why?"

Without preamble,McGarry grabbed Bartlet's other arm. "The hillside above us is sliding," he snapped.  “Once it hits the wreck, we're going to be pushed over _that_!"

Bartlet followed the pointing finger forward past the wrecked nose of the helicopter and gulped. "Fair point."  He looked to the two men positioned on either side of him in the hatchway and asked --though he had a fairly nasty suspicion what the answer would be--, "What's the plan?"

Butterfield looked over his charge's head at the Chief of Staff.  "Jump?"

The Chief of Staff was just as terse."Jump!"

Ignoring the startled gasp of the man between them, they launched themselves forward into space, dropping heavily onto the soft earth below.

McGarry landed with a thud, the breath whooshing out of him.  Rolling over clumsily, he saw that Butterfield had already gained his feet and was struggling to lift Bartlet.  Stumbling upright, he slipped a hand under the dazed man's other arm and helped Butterfield drag him, tripping and floundering across the loose soil, trying desperately to get clear of the disaster bearing down on them.

"There!"  Butterfield indicated a raised rock outcrop that seemed to offer the possibility of a sanctuary.

Both men redoubled their efforts, the earth beneath them slowly starting to move now, tugging hungrily at their feet. The distant roar of the jet fighters still circling high above lent an oddly mocking note to the scene. Help was so near, yet still useless.  

Reaching the base of the low outcrop, both men began to mount it rapidly, hastily dragging the body between them, forcing themselves to ignore the President's pained exclamation as his leg banged excruciatingly against the rough surface.  Driven on by the increasingly loud rumbling, they finally gained the top and threw themselves flat, Butterfield stretching his long form over the body of the President.  

Pressed flat against the rock by his security chief's weight, Bartlet managed to twist his head around to regard the scene before him with horrified awe.  He felt the stone beneath him tremble as the tons of mud, earth and vegetation swept past, catching the remains of the downed helicopter with its ill-fated passengers and carrying it along effortlessly, until it disappeared over the lip of the cliff and vanished from sight.  

Turning his head slightly, he caught a glimpse of his Chief of Staff's shocked face, wincing as it was suddenly illuminated by a sheet of flame that roared up momentarily above the cliff edge, before abruptly dying back down.  He could hear the distant crackle of fire as the aviation fuel finally ignited the wreck, and closed his eyes in silent prayer for the souls of the men whose bodies lay immolated within.

Finally, the rumbling died away and Butterfield lifted his body carefully off the President.  "Everybody alright?"

Rainwater running down his face and soaking into his suit, McGarry could only offer a stunned nod, his eyes still fixed on that point where the remains of Marine One had disappeared.  He was roused from his trance by an agonized hiss and looked down to see Bartlet clutching his injured leg in both hands as he attempted to gain a sitting position.

Pain aside, the President appeared to have recovered his equanimity. "Well, that was bracing! Think those guys…" he indicated the jet fighters with an upward jerk of his thumb, "…realize we got out?  If not, they must be having kittens about now."

"That reminds me …” Butterfield reached into his pocket and stupefied his companions by producing a flare gun. "Grabbed it from a locker when I was getting the blankets," he explained calmly, releasing the flare up into the sky and bathing them all in a red light.

"You okay, Leo?"  Bartlet studied his friend.  It was difficult to be sure in the fast fading glow of the flare, but he thought that McGarry seemed to be regaining his color and balance.  He felt immeasurably relieved by the man's firm nod and promptly attempted to lighten the moment. "See? I told you everything would be fine.  In fact I think we cheated ourselves of a really good last-minute escape story."

McGarry regarded his old friend with disbelief.  "What?" he asked weakly.

"Yeah. We allowed the drama to dissipate by giving ourselves such a wide escape margin," Bartlet continued blithely. "I estimate we had, oh, a good minute and a half before the slide hit.  We lost the tension."

Grinning he enjoyed McGarry's expression, which seemed to indicate that right now his friend's emotions were, perhaps fortunately, too deep for words.  His teasing mood was cut short however by an abrupt yelp of anguish as Butterfield pulled the belt around his wounded thigh even tighter.  " _Christ!_   Ron!"

"Sorry, Mr. President." Butterfield's face was creased with concern as he tried to adjust the blanket compress, which was now sodden with both rainwater and fresh blood from the rough handling of the last few minutes. Looking up into Bartlet's ashen face and seeing the convulsive bobbing of his throat as he fought down a sudden wave of nausea, the agent's attention was abruptly tugged away.

"Ron?"  Worriedly, McGarry glanced from the President's drawn features to the security chief's face. His dismay mounted when Butterfield momentarily closed his eyes, then receded again when they reopened to reveal unveiled relief. Glancing upwards, he suddenly detected what Butterfield had already heard and almost collapsed as the weight of responsibility finally lifted. The noise of rotor blades was all too familiar.  

The medevac choppers had found them at last.

"Mr. President?"  He touched the shoulder of the man whose forehead was now resting on one drawn up knee.  "Help's finally arrived."

"You're kidding me," came Bartlet's weary response.  Lifting his head, he opened his eyes and winced as they were seared by the searchlight of the helicopter that suddenly dropped over the top of the ridge to hover overhead.  "No, I guess you're not.  Any chance we can get them to dim that light a bit?"  

McGarry laughed, giddy with relief.  "It hardly seems polite under the circumstances.  After all, they're here to rescue us."

"Speak for yourself," the President grumbled.  "As far as I can see, nine-tenths of any rescuing in this mission has already been taken care of.  Remind me to compliment them on their sense of timing, by the way."

"Oh, no!"  McGarry spoke firmly, looking up and squinting against the offending glare as a rescue cradle with men on the towline began a swaying descent towards their position.  "I've had a long, hard day and I'm not letting you give them any excuse to toss us overboard before we get back to civilization."  

Bartlet gave a weak snort, and then impulsively reached out to seize Butterfield and McGarry's hands in his chilled grasp. "Fellas, I want to say thank you.  Thank you both … for everything."  He gazed at them intensely, trying to convey his wordless gratitude for the risks they had taken on his behalf, and much more besides. 

Seeing that understanding in McGarry’s answering smile and an _almost_ smile from Butterfield --which was more than he had expected--, he gripped their hands tightly before sinking back and allowing the exhaustion he’d been fighting for so long finally have its way.

Closing his eyes, he muttered tiredly, “Leo?”

Just as worn-out and exhausted, McGarry allowed himself a moments peace before answering, “Yeah?”

“Can I sleep now?”

McGarry’s face broke into a sudden, relieved smile. It was over. Settling back, fully prepared to let the arriving rescue team to take them all in charge, he shared a long, sympathetic look with Butterfield and answered tiredly, “Knock yourself out, Mr. President.”

Shaking his head at the sight, Ron Butterfield sighed heavily and started to get up to lend a hand to the descending rescuers. Staggering, he slipped back to his knees and bit back a curse at the near forgotten pain that coursed through his side. The adrenaline was wearing off. Gritting his teeth, he started to get back up, and then paused. Hand pressed to his side, he looked down at the two filthy and exhausted men and weighed his options. He was missing something here.

He thought about it for a moment, and then muttered, “Aw, hell.”

Joining the President and his Chief of Staff he lay back down and waited. He figured he’d earned this moment. Let someone else do the work for once.

~ooOoo~

 

_‘Jackass.’_

Abigail Bartlet didn’t know what to feel, couldn’t pick one emotion from the muddled confusion that twisted through her mind. It was the only coherent thought she could manage. She wasn’t even sure she hadn’t said it out loud. A quick glance at the blank face of the agent sitting next to her was reassurance enough that she hadn’t.

Small relief there, especially now.

But then, would there be a reaction? The secret service were used to that particular word. Used to _her_ using it at any rate. As much as they might want to, nobody else would dare. She almost smiled at that thought. Nobody commented, nobody reacted; at least not after the first time. By now, they’d probably lost count of the times that _word_ had echoed down the halls of the White House. 

Watching the buildings flash by, the faces of the curious as the heavily guarded motorcade sped down the street, Abigail Bartlet wondered, not for the first time and certainly not the last, what the hell she was doing here.

_‘Jackass.’_

It was all _his_ fault. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to rail and spit against _his_ stubborn pride, _his_ refusal to face the obvious. It had been so easy to hold on to the rage these last months, seemingly the only thing that had kept her going. The whole thing was starting to get ugly. Injured pride, betrayal; in the end it all amounted to the same thing. 

It was all _his_ fault.

She found the anger, held on to it. For a moment, it felt good and solid; the warm glow of a weakened ember. Not much, but it was enough.

_‘Mrs. Bartlet, your husband has been shot.”_

Abbey closed her eyes, refusing the memory. It came anyway. She never could stop it. Was that when it had begun? The doubts? The hidden fears? She’d thought the MS enough of an enemy, had never counted on the vicious, hate filled human variety. Oddly, at the time she’d been ridiculously grateful and touched the grim agent had said, _‘Your husband.’_

Not the President.

_Your_ husband.

Jed.

She lost the anger. And in its place? She wasn’t quite sure.

_‘Mrs. Bartlet, there’s been an accident. Marine One is down.’_

Abbey swallowed hard and tried to bite back the tears. Like most things she’d done lately, she failed miserably. She felt the tracks as the tears slowly found their way down her cheeks. Wiping them away, she found a bit of the spark again, the anger.

And whose fault was that? That she was crying again? _He_ knew she was pissed, and who she was pissed at. She had every reason to be. He deserved it. The fact that he had absolutely _no_ idea why had little bearing on her targeting. Yes, it had been her choice. _He_ hadn’t asked, he never did. He didn’t have to. All she’d had to do was look in his eyes and the decision was made. It was that simple.

She loved him. She was pissed at him. He deserved it.

It was all _his_ fault and he _still_ hadn’t figured out why. It always came back to that. He didn’t even have the decency to ask. One small, insignificant seeming question and _he_ failed to appreciate its importance. Where was his head? Up his ass? What was it about him that he refused to acknowledge the inevitable? He wasn’t immortal. She knew that, _he_ knew that.It wasn’t the deal; it wasn’t his careful distortion of the truth. Just one little word was all she asked.

_Why, Abbey?_ It was so simple a question, yet so far away. _Why are you angry?_

And what does _he_ do in return? Like a little boy with a skinned knee, he finds his way out of the doghouse. How could she fight that? In so many infuriating ways, he _was_ a little boy and he was all hers.

A _lost_ little boy.

Jed.

_‘Jackass.’_

“Ma’am?” 

A hesitant voice wakened her from the memories. Blinking slowly to erase the tears, she allowed herself to be dragged back to the present. The armored limo had pulled into the turnaround of the hospital emergency entrance.

“We’re here, ma’am.”

Reporters were already swarming, camera lights flashing like so many agitated fireflies. It hadn’t taken them long to gather. Like sharks around a thrashing carcass, they’d been drawn to the scent of blood in the water. Abbey recalled a moment when CJ Cregg had explained the phenomenon to her, the seeming paranormal ability of the creatures to latch on to a story and collect like scavengers.

At the time Abbey had preferred her own analogy. Like locusts they were; insects. They didn’t care, how could they? What did any of them know about sacrifice? All they cared about was the moment. Her breath burned hot in her throat, a protective fury choking away her doubts and fears. For the moment her anger found another target, multiple targets. Insects.

And right now she was more than ready to stomp on a few of them.

The secret service detail must have sensed some of what was going through her mind. Avoiding bloodshed being one of the prime tenets of their job, they put themselves --more so than usual-- between her and the reporters as she got out of the limo. A few pointed and ferocious glares, the casual flip of a jacket to reveal fully loaded firearms, and the reporters got the message.

_Not_ _today._ Leave her alone.

Even scavengers have a strong sense of self-preservation. They weren’t entirely stupid. The cameras still flashed, the questions were still shouted. But from a safe distance.

As the limo door was opened for her, Abbey saw an agent making his way through the cordon. She recognized one of Butterfield’s senior men, couldn’t remember his name. There were so many of them. He was assigned to the President’s personal detail.

Jed’s detail.

She remembered his name now. _Carlyle._ Not bothering with preamble, ignoring the crowds being held back with as much dignity as she could muster, she demanded curtly, “How is he?”

Carlyle didn’t even blink at her tone. After three years, he and the others knew her moods, the pressure points that could set the First Lady off. While they may have presented the image of emotionless practicality, the secret service knew and understood her reasons. Josiah Bartlet may have been the President of the United States and their charge to protect, but he was first and foremost _her_ husband.

They respected her for that, gave her room to maneuver. 

Taking her arm and leading her towards the entrance, Carlyle responded with unruffled alacrity, “He’s in recovery, ma’am.”

Abbey’s hurried steps faltered for a moment as the words registered. “Recovery? Already?” How many hours had it been? Since the horrible news was delivered, the insane flight. There’d been no further word, good or otherwise. Hope, something she hadn’t dared allow herself to feel, flickered and began to grow. “Then his injuries…”

She couldn’t finish the sentence. 

“Were relatively minor,” the agent finished the sentence, nodding curtly to his two compatriots as they opened the hospital doors for them. Allowing her to precede him inside, he added with uncharacteristic sentiment, “A miracle.”

“A miracle,” Abbey muttered. But not the miracle she wanted or prayed for. And she knew _he_ hadn’t prayed for it either. It wasn’t his way.

But it was hers. She couldn’t change that. _Wouldn’t_ change that.

The hospital corridors had been cleared. Only a few doctors and nurses remained to watch the grim progress of one worried, terrified wife and her forbidding entourage. Some offered a smile of reassurance as she passed, support and understanding. Others looked away, eyes laden with accusation and veiled contempt.

Abbey’s lips tightened. And so it begins. Or rather, it continued. She’d broken the rules. Hell, she’d stomped all over them. Her choice and they knew it. The reasons didn’t matter, nor that any of _them_ would have made the same decision in her place. Hypocrisy. Some condemned. Some forgave.

She didn’t want their condemnation or their forgiveness.

She wanted her husband.

At the end of the corridor she spotted them. Two more dark clad secret service agents waiting outside a closed door, guarding the life of the man within. He was their charge, their job. _Her_ husband. Abbey’s heartbeat sped up, as did her pace. 

The door opened and a short, white clad man with a clipboard in hand stepped out. Closing the door behind him, he started to say something to one of the agents, then turned and saw the First Lady’s approach. His expression changed, sliding into a smug disapproval that bordered on the self-righteous. 

One of the attending agents curled his lip at the man’s back, exchanging a slight roll of the eyes with Carlyle. With a quick jerk of his head, the man indicated the Doctor with nearly open scorn.

Eyes narrowing slightly, Carlyle took up position beside the First Lady. Instinct told him this was _not_ going to be pretty. 

On familiar ground, Abbey reached out her hand, gesturing for the records. “Doctor…?”

Flipping the clipboard under his arm, the man countered icily, “ _Mrs._ Bartlet.”

The insult was painfully obvious. Blinking slowly, she drew her hand back. There was no mistaking the disdain in his voice. Truthfully, Abbey was getting used to it. She wasn’t allowed to make a mistake, to be human. The medical board meetings, people she had thought friends as well as colleagues, in most cases it was all the same.Even the hypocrisy didn’t surprise her anymore. It may no longer have surprised her, but it still hurt, still angered.

Assuming the appearance of indifference, she tried again. “Doctor…?”

“Kipper.” Drawing himself up, posturing, he added with no little pride, “I’m the President’s attending physician.”

“And I’m his wife,” she nearly snapped. _Smoked fish._ Abbey didn’t have the strength to laugh. “Doctor Kipper, I would like to see my husband.”

Not the President, _her_ husband, the father of her children. The _man_ , not the position. Why couldn’t anyone see that? She didn’t want to play this game. Rubbing her eyes, she tried to fight the headache, find some sense of peace. How long had it been?

How much longer would it go on?

“He is in recovery, _Mrs._ Bartlet.” Cold eyes sniped at her, enjoying the game, the sense of perceived moral and professional superiority. “There are _rules_. For the moment, _I_ don’t want him disturbed. When he is transferred to a room, you can see him.”

“Doctor Kipper…”

“You _do_ remember rules, don’t you, _Mrs._ Bartlet?” He was obviously taking great pleasure in this, himself, and the momentary sense of power. That it was two-faced never occurred to him.

She was so furious at his tone she could hardly speak.

The agents shifted uncomfortably, trading uncertain looks. _This_ was not part of the training manual. Within the rules of engagement, the attending physician had call. Still, this _was_ the First Lady, Abigail Bartlet. The Terror of the White House and, truth be told, the most entertainment _any_ of them had had in years. Her victim count was a point of pride for most of them. In many ways, she made their jobs easier.  

Josiah Bartlet might have had the most efficient bodyguards in the world to look to his safety, but not one of them had reckoned with the formidable force that was a wife bent on protecting her husband against all comers, be they abstract or tangible enemies.  

They _liked_ her.

Watching carefully, eagerly, they waited for the explosion.

It never came.

There was no mistaking the condescension in the Doctor’s attitude. Abbey stiffened, momentarily disconcerted and for the first time in years unsure of her place or power. Where before embarrassment would have turned to raw, righteous fury, now all she could find was indecision. Another wall had been placed in front of her.

She was tired of climbing them alone.

“…given the general rundown condition of the President’s health,” Kipper was saying, his tone scornful and self satisfied, “I wouldn’t hesitate to say _someone_ had dropped the ball. His blood pressure is high, more than likely brought on by long-term exhaustion and general _neglect_ …”

Abbey flinched.

Three pairs of eyes narrowed dangerously. This had gone on long enough. Rules or no rules, the secret service _did_ have options. Besides, the First Lady had taught them a few tricks over recent years. They had all been quick learners, survival of the fittest.

Intent on his lecture and posturing, Kipper didn’t notice one of the agents behind him lift his hand to his mouth. He didn’t hear him speak quietly and hotly into the transceiver strapped to his wrist and palm. Nor did he even see or register the cool glance and the nod of approval Carlyle exchanged with him. 

He also completely missed the anticipation, the sly and predatory gleams that appeared in their eyes. 

Smirking, he was too busy playing the self-righteous fool.

Abbey listened to him drone on and on. There was no end in sight. Another time, another place and she would have enjoyed surgically removing the arrogant smirk that spread like oil across his face. Right now, she only wanted one thing.

“I want to see my husband.”

Another arrogant smirk. “You can see the President…’

“ _Now_.”

Abbey’s relief was nearly unbearable. There was no mistaking the voice of Jed’s oldest friend. There had been times when she hated it, blamed _him_ as much as her husband. What it lacked in sheer volume, it more than made up for in low, grating and supremely perilous hidden nuances. She didn’t have to look; closed her eyes when she felt a gentle hand touch her elbow and squeeze it reassuringly. 

Carlyle stepped back as two others joined him and flanked the First Lady on either side. McGarry and Butterfield, bruised, battered and bandaged, leveled the pompous little man with glares of cool contempt.

The cavalry had arrived.

Awkwardly, Kipper cleared his throat. Attempting to regain some of his momentum, he tried, “Mr. McGarry...”

He broke off as two other dark clad figures joined the group. Nodding to Butterfield, they stepped around Abbey and took up position on either side of the rapidly deflating Doctor. Hard eyed, uncompromising, they began to stare at their now visibly fidgeting victim.

_Victim._ The First Lady had taught them the true, wonderful meaning of _that_ word.

It was a show of support Abbey had not expected. Something cautioned her not to ask why, but to accept it as the gift it was meant to be. Hypocrisy, doubts and fears had no place here, _they_ wouldn’t allow it. 

For the first time today, Abigail Bartlet smiled and meant it. Abandoning all pretence, defiance in her tone as well as challenge, she said sweetly, “Doctor Kipper?”

Only those who knew no better would have said the surrounding agents smiled at that familiar, melodically cutting tone. Their lips did twitch and satisfaction gleamed briefly in their eyes, then shuttered, hidden by hard, cold expressions.

The Terror was back. Life was good.

Kipper missed the whole thing completely. “ _Mrs._ Bartlet, my patient…”

“ _My_ husband.” Abbey smiled at that. 

So did McGarry. “Let her in.”

Literally jumping at the sound of his voice, Kipper sputtered, “Mr. McGarry, there are rules…”

“So break ‘em. My call.”

_“My_ call.” Butterfield’s dangerously impersonal tone broke in.

McGarry blinked up at Butterfield, then grinned even wider. Pointing with open, childish glee at the glowering senior agent, he said, “ _His_ call.”

Drawing himself up, puffing further if that were at all possible. “ _My_ patient.”

McGarry shrugged and said casually, “Sue me.”

“Really…”

“Yeah, really.” 

There was nothing else Kipper could do. It had finally dawned on him that he was outnumbered. “I _will_ take this up with the administrator. You can count on that!”

As parting shots go, it was pretty weak. McGarry had heard far better in his time. Hell, the man wouldn’t last more than a few seconds with Toby, let alone a group of irritable, well armed bodyguards. Not to mention two men who’d had the _whole_ nine yards tossed at them that day and really weren’t in the mood to play. 

Shrugging, he said, “Knock yourself out.”

“Yeah, knock yourself out.” Pushed to his limits and perhaps, just this once, giving into a touch of personal exasperation, Butterfield’s lip curled under his moustache. His voice hardened and while very quiet had an ominous quality to it that even the least intelligent of creatures couldn’t miss. “I would _really_ like you to try.”

Almost visibly swelling with outraged pride, and perhaps just a touch of trepidation, the Doctor wheeled to stalk away. As he brushed past her, Abbey neatly whipped the medical chart bearing her husband's notes from under his arm.

Already enraged, this further affront to his claim to supreme authority incensed Kipper beyond caution. Whirling, he extended his arm as if to seize back the chart from the First Lady's grasp.  

A low, rumbling, yet unmistakably menacing sound caused him to freeze in mid-motion, arm outstretched. Almost visibly paling, his eyes darted to gaze at the tall security chief with open alarm. Had the man actually _growled_? Swallowing convulsively, he was not at all reassured by the faces of the others. The agents seemed to be regarding their boss with as much surprise as their professionalism would permit them to show.  

Leo McGarry and Abigail Bartlet, denied the benefit of such training, were not so discrete.  Their expressions were almost comically dumbfounded.

Butterfield ignored them all, his gimlet like eyes threatening to drill holes clean through the offending party, who was practically twitching under the force of that glare.

Cleanly routed, Kipper let out a long, audible breath, then marched off.

As the still sputtering little man stomped down the corridor, Abbey turned and gave both McGarry and Butterfield a long look, a speculative gleam in her eye. Something had happened here, changing the rules. She didn’t know exactly what, or even why. 

Butterfield shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, reaching up to absently scratch at the ridiculous looking bandage covering the bridge of his nose. Looking at him closely for the first time, it occurred to Abbey that the man had probably just barely escaped from some doctor’s care. A hospital smock was hastily tucked into a pair of dirty trousers and he was barefoot. She half expected to see a brigade of outraged nurses charging around the corner any moment now in hot pursuit.

Not for the first time, she wondered exactly how far this man _would_ go to protect her husband. Obviously, his own care and comfort wasn’t part of the equation.

It was a very humbling thought.

And Leo McGarry wasn’t much better. Clearing his throat, he was looking down at the tops of his once immaculate but now muddy and scuffed shoes, shuffling his feet. Obviously he hadn’t been cornered by any doctors yet, but she was sure he was on _somebody’s_ list. 

Abbey nearly laughed at the sight. It was so very obvious and touching. They were _all_ little boys. And somewhere along the line, she had become the den mother. She was amazed at the unexpected warmth that thought gave her. 

“Thank you,” she said simply. No other words were needed.

Smiling, McGarry inclined his head. “Abbey.”

Butterfield, once again the image of emotionless practicality, replied, “Ma’am.”

Hand on the door, she paused and said with obvious relish, “You two make a good team. You should take it on the road.” 

With _that_ parting shot, she went inside.

Both men stared at the door as it closed behind her.

“A good team?” McGarry gave Butterfield a sidelong glance of utter shock and disbelief. “Us?”

Butterfield’s mouth was hanging open, and then snapped shut with an audible click. “Is she serious?”

“Could be.”

“A team?”

Both men stared at each other wordlessly, contemplating the loaded possibilities. Then, together they shook their heads and muttered in chorus, “Nah.”

Carlyle and the others didn’t quite snicker, but they came close.

Studiously ignoring the knowing looks his men were giving him, and McGarry’s grin, Butterfield snapped, “Carlyle.”

“Sir.”

“Go with him,” he inclined his head in the direction Kipper had taken. “Inform the hospital administrator I want Doctor Snotty taken off the President’s case. No arguments. My call.”

Carlyle’s lips twitched. “Reason, sir?”

One corner of his mouth twisted upwards and Butterfield replied blandly, “I don’t like him.”

McGarry snorted, swallowing and nearly choking on a laugh.

Butterfield glared at him.

Face brightening at the order, Carlyle dashed off down the corridor, in search of another victim. Not for the first time, he realized this job came with some _major_ perks. 

Watching him leave, Butterfield turned and regarded the closed recovery room door. His expression, still not quite back under steely control, stilled and grew almost somber. 

Following his gaze, McGarry was uncannily aware of what was going through the agent’s mind. “She’ll be okay,” he said. “They both will.”

“You sure?”

For an instant, a strange wistfulness stole into McGarry’s expression. He’d missed the boat on this one, but Jed and Abbey Bartlet hadn’t. The answer was easy. “Thirty odd years of marriage and you don’t think they’ve had fights before?”

“Ever gone on this long?”

McGarry weighed the agent with a critical gaze. Something was off here. “You usually don’t ask these questions.”

Butterfield shrugged, a momentary look of discomfort crossing his face. With the Chief of Staff in tow, he turned and began making his way down the corridor. “They usually don’t have much bearing.”

“It wouldn’t, would it?” Sadly, McGarry thought he understood. “You’ve got a job to do, no matter what.”

“Most of the time.”

Hearing something in his voice, recognizing it, McGarry smiled. He understood now. “You like them.”

Uncomfortable, but still managing to keep his expression under stern control, Butterfield growled, “Don’t let it get around.”

“I can keep a secret.”

“Yeah, right.”

McGarry dropped back for a moment, and then picked up his pace. Grinning, he needled, “Doctor Snotty?”

“Yeah.” This time, Butterfield _did_ smile. It was a genuine, face splitting, muscle-cracking grin of pure, evil amusement. “Wanna make something of it?”

“Do I look crazy?”

“Yep.”

“Okay.”

~ooOoo~

 

Abbey barely registered the soft click of the door as it closed behind her. Tightly clenching the clipboard in white knuckled hands, her attention was fully focused on the man lying quiet and still on the bed. His eyes were closed. The beeping of the monitor, insistently registering his heartbeat, broke the silence. Clinically, she found herself counting them. The rhythm was even and steady, a hypnotic cadence reflecting the continuing life and well being of Josiah Bartlet, President of the United States.

Abigail Bartlet’s _husband._ Right now, everyone else could go screw themselves.

Glancing around, she noted that no one else was in the room. She was grateful for that. She didn’t have the energy, let alone the will, left to send someone else packing, be they nurses or secret service. Right now she didn’t want an audience, sympathetic or otherwise.

Slipping her glasses on, a wave of apprehension coursed through her as she began to leaf through the charts on the clipboard. Carlyle had _said_ his injuries were minor, that it was a miracle. It was a confidence she would have to see to believe.

Her mouth tightened as she read, a tensing of her jaw that those who knew her would have understood indicated deep frustrated annoyance and relief. An unusual combination of emotions usually reserved for and applied to only one man and his antics. Somehow, saying _yes_ when he’d asked her to marry him all those years ago had not included a lifetime of hauling him out from in front of onrushing trains. Half the time, she didn’t know whether to cry or box his ears. Flipping through the pages, Abbey chalked up Jed’s latest score. Reading, she found a small measure of her serenity restored.

He _had_ been lucky. The whole thing read like a bad EMT report after a particularly vicious football game. Concussion, blood loss, bruises and contusions. Unconsciously, her brow furrowed as she read further. Somehow, he’d managed to do a real number on his right leg, twenty-seven stitches but minimal muscle damage. He was going to have one hell of a scar. Given half a chance, he’d be able to walk out of the hospital in a few days.

Not at all amused by that thought and knowing he’d do just that _if_ given half a chance, she flipped the last page back and found herself staring at him again, taking the moment and simply rejoicing in the fact that once again, through no action of his own, he’d managed to dodge another bullet. He attracted trouble like a magnet.

Luck? Somehow, she knew luck had very little to do with his latest escape. More shaken than she cared to admit or show, even to herself, she searched half-heartedly for some meaning behind it all. Danger until Rossyln had been an abstract, something that existed only in the history books, threatened _other_ presidents. Now this.

She couldn’t help the sad smile that pulled gently at the corners of her lips. Her beloved _klutz_ had somehow managed to stumble once again into those dry historical passages. 

Josiah Bartlet: Crashed Marine One, insurance report pending.

“Jackass,” she muttered, shaking her head sadly. A familiar surge of nearly overwhelming affection drove everything else from her mind. The feeling always thrilled and frightened her. 

“I heard that.”

Smiling, she wasn’t surprised that he had. His eyes remained closed as she approached the bed. Saying nothing, she reached out and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, noting the stitched wound just above the hairline. How many stitches? She remembered. Four. Another injury.

Another scar.

Abbey’s smile, along with her relief, faltered. When he opened his eyes to look at her, it was nearly her undoing. He could be economical with the truth and his actions, but not when he looked at her like that. Clear blue and full of life, sorrow and a passionate intensity that took her breath away, she had never been able to deny him or those eyes anything. At least, not for long.

Her lips trembled with the sudden need to smile, to give him a small measure of absolution. But she wasn’t about to give him that. Not yet.

Still, Bartlet sensed her yielding the high ground. Tired amusement had replaced the worry and anger in her eyes. That was always a good indication, a sure sign he no longer needed to find excuses or a place to hide. Why? He’d never been able to figure that one out; wasn’t sure he really wanted to.  Escaping, the doghouse door slammed shut behind him.

Safely away and almost able to hear it slam, he managed a weak, protesting grin. “This _wasn’t_ my fault.”

Abbey sighed. “It never is.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Abbey dropped the clip board on the nightstand and took his hand, lacing her fingers through his and squeezing gently, “This is one hell of a way to try and get out of dancing with me at my birthday party.”

“I like to dance.”

“Not in front of an audience you don’t.”

He couldn’t argue with that. He _did_ like to dance, but only with her. Being schlepped off from one head of state’s wife to another in an endless round of ridiculously polite niceties never improved his mood or his skills on the dance floor. More than one toe had meet with an unhappy end under his irritated feet. It was a sentimental bias he had absolutely no intention of changing. 

And then there was that whole audience thing. The problem was that dancing with Abbey inevitably led to other things best left to the privacy provided by a locked door, a cordon of heavily armed secret service agents and a gloriously missing weekend. Something neither of them had had time for lately. 

Come to think of it, they _could_ skip the dancing altogether. It wasn’t completely out of the question. Grimacing, he shifted on the bed as best he could, finding it impossible to settle in any comfortable position. He hated hospitals. He hated the drugs. He _hated_ feeling goofy. Then again, goofy had its uses.

His mischievous gaze returned to hers. “You know, they managed to do it again.”

Recognizing the devil that had popped up and immediately suspicious, Abbey asked carefully, “What do you mean?”

“They got my pants off before you could.”

Abbey stared at him for a moment, openly incredulous and at a complete loss for words. Then her sense of humor took over and she burst out laughing. She could hear a touch of hysteria in the sound, but then she was entitled. Bad jokes or not, he always managed to make her laugh.

Feeling his fingers tighten around hers she leaned over and, voice shakier than she would have liked, murmured, “A wasted effort.”

“Hmm.” The response was distant and fading. “Am I going to be punished?”

Abbey could have provided more than a few answers to that question, but his tone, the quiet yet somehow forced desperation left her wondering if he was baiting her, teasing. It would be just like him. 

She couldn’t help the sad smile as she asked, “For what?” As if he didn’t already know. But that was for later.

“Crashing Marine One,” came the drowsy response.

“Were you driving?”

Considering his past track record, it was a fair question. One corner of Bartlet’s mouth twisted wryly. “No.”

“Then that’s the Navy’s problem, not mine.”

“And your problem would be?”

This time Abbey did hear it, the worried question and underlying fear. He was watching her intently, fighting the drugs threatening to drag him under and waiting for an answer he dreaded. Falling back on her earlier equation, she decided boxing his ears for even _thinking_ of the possibility wouldn’t be fair. She was better at fights than he was. Her feelings for him had very little to do with sound reasoning and everything to do with what was simply good and right.

Besides, she never could resist the _little boy lost_ look he could get on his face. It got her every time. _That_ she had long ago concluded was a truly unfair advantage. It didn’t help that he had absolutely no idea he was doing it and what it did to her.

What was Abigail Bartlet’s problem? The list was truly endless, but only one person occupied the top slot.

“You are,” she answered softly, and not regretting one moment.

Abbey leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, feather light and caressing rather than demanding. His response was slow, almost shocked and without the passionate hunger she’d long ago learned to expect from him. He was surprised.

Pulling away, Abbey smiled and realized it was nice to know she could still take the wind out of his sails every now and then. Whatever the future may hold, they always had that at least.

For now, it was enough.

Frowning, she noticed that his eyes had closed. Not exactly the best response to one of her kisses, but she allowed that he’d had a pretty rough day. Finding her smile again, she admitted candidly that they both had. And it wasn’t over yet. Resolutions were never that easy.

Abbey could see a muscle twitching in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. She reached out to brush her thumb gently across the darkening bruise on his cheek. Poor comfort. It broke her heart to see the pain etched in merciless lines across his face.

This shouldn’t have happened. They deserved better.

_He_ deserved better.

In her mind’s eye, Abbey returned to another hospital room, another bitter event that had torn out the supports of their lives. Too many hospitals. Too many questions without answers, leaving the future a blank, terrifying slate with no hint of what may yet come. Fate had already conspired to take him away from her.

Now this.

Her vision blurred, reliving the grief and pain of that older scene and adding it to the present. It was senselessly and sickeningly familiar. One hot tear trailed down her cheek. For the moment, it was all she would allow. 

It was all she would show him. He didn’t need her tears, not now. Neither did he need her anger. Later perhaps, but not now. 

Trailing her fingers along his jaw, Abbey could sense he was close to slipping beneath the last layer of consciousness. Drugs, exhaustion, it didn’t matter. Doctor Bartlet knew sleep was the best medicine for him now. Abigail, wife and mother of his children, was unwilling to let him go quite so soon.

Just a few more minutes were all she wanted.

“Hey!”

Drawn back from the brink, he blinked up at her. “It’s okay.”

“You sure?”

“Sure?” Bartlet managed a short laugh, which trailed off into a drawn out hiss of pain. He felt Abbey lay a worried hand on his chest. “Nah, but I think I’m getting used to it.”

“One hell of a desk job?” It was a bad joke, but all she could manage. She never could play the game as well as he could.

“I think…” he paused, trying to keep his thoughts centered. It was becoming increasingly difficult. “…I’m going to have to reread the manual.”

“We both will.” She could see he could barely keep his eyes open. Abbey knew it was time to let him go, to sleep and recover. Reluctantly, she let go his hand and gently laid it on the bed. “Get some sleep.”

“Abbey…”

“Not now.” She knew what he wanted say, what he wanted to finish and silently cursed his timing. He always had been lousy at choosing battlefields. “Later.”

His eyes drifted shut, giving in to the exhaustion. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” The last was a barely audible mumble.

Abbey stood there and listened to his breathing as it settled into the slow rhythms of sleep. She wondered briefly if she should feel some guilt over the relief she felt, that the whole ugly mess was being postponed once more. And this time it was her decision, not his. 

How long could they wait? How long could she? The questions hammered at her. She wasn’t really sure what she wanted of him anymore. Apology? Admittance? The horrible thought occurred to her that maybe, just _maybe_ , she’d left him no alternatives. She’d backed him into a corner of her own choosing.

A cynical inner voice sliced through her wandering thoughts. Her own words returned to haunt her. 

_‘Not now. Later.’_

Perhaps they were both guilty.

It was something to think about.

~ooOoo~

**Epilogue**

“You know I’m right.”

“I know _nothing_ of the kind.” He stopped just short of smirking condescendingly at her. She wasn’t new to the job, just new to the NTSB and his team. She was young but good; he wouldn’t have assigned her to this investigation if she weren’t. 

Still, her conclusions, despite the conviction in her voice, were far too preliminary. He had to point out the obvious. “You’re guessing.”

“No, I’m not.” Raising a hand to shield her eyes from the glare of an early morning sun, she watched as a group of investigators, hands and feet carefully encased in protective latex, painstakingly removed the bits and pieces of Marine One from the clinging mud. “It shouldn’t have failed…”

“Well, obviously it did.”

She didn’t fail to catch the note of cool disapproval in his voice. The rebuke was obvious. Junior investigators did _not_ voice opinions to seniors unless asked. Snorting derisively, she ignored the warning and replied with equal parts sarcasm, “Gonna scream _‘_ _pilot error’_ now?”

“That would go over big with the press, wouldn’t it?” 

“Try the President. The man’s not going to buy that excuse without proof.”

“And you have proof it’s not?” He had to ask it. She _was_ good at her job, he wouldn’t have asked for her on site if she weren’t. As certain as he was that she was wrong, something in her voice gave him pause. “Spill it. What have you got?”

“It shouldn’t have failed.” Her reply lacked any ring of finality, any force of truth. The conviction was there, but no proof.

“So you say.” This was getting them nowhere and he started to turn away.

“So I _know_!”

“There was a storm! Lightning, high winds…”

“Pilot error?” she prodded in a nasty tone. 

Eyes narrowing dangerously, he glared at her. Good or not, she was pushing it. “Maybe. The lab will…”

“The lab will take _weeks_! Maybe months! You know it, I know it. In the meanwhile, _that_ …” she pointed to what little remained of Marine One at the bottom of the ridge, “…is all that remains of one of the most secure aircraft in the world! The thing was degaussed and grounded three ways to Sunday! Backup systems, redundancies you wouldn’t believe and pilots who _don’t_ …”

Her enthusiasm was laudable, but he knew if he didn’t stop this now he wouldn’t be able to later. Trying to interrupt, he said, “Listen…”

She wasn’t about to let him stop her and finished with a triumphant note, “…pilots who _don’t_ make mistakes! Redundancy, damn it!”

“Your point?” he sighed with profound exasperation. Youth had its advantages, but this?

“The one part…”

“Here it comes.” He rolled his eyes and threw his hands into the air in disgust. 

“The _one_ part that can’t be duplicated, can’t be backed up…” Pausing, she took a deep breath and turned the full force of her gaze and certainty on him. She _knew_ what had happened, why didn’t he? Willing him to listen, she finished, “…fails. There’s only _one_ main rotor housing, _one_ bolt. What are the odds?”

Sighing, he rubbed his eyes. “You have no proof.”

“They heard an explosion.”

“They heard a _bang_.” He corrected her testily

This time it was her turn to throw up her arms in disgust. “What is it with you?”

Truthfully, at this point he had no idea. “I’ll wait for the lab reports,” he told her, wondering at the bitter cynicism he could hear echoing in his voice. Where had that come from? Was she getting to him?

She came to a decision. “I’m not. It’s going in my report.”

“It’s your head.”

“Better mine than the President’s.”

He looked at her, eyes narrowed. “You’re gonna say it, aren’t you?”

She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Standing up to him wasn’t easy, but she _knew_ her instincts were right. Without a hint of boastfulness, she said, “The lab reports _will_ confirm it. In the meanwhile the President, the NSA, the CIA, the FBI and God knows whatever alphabet I’ve forgotten to mention has to be told _now_.”

“Say it.” There was a thread of warning in his voice, although deep down he was beginning to wonder. He turned away before she could answer, resigned to the fact that maybe she was right and that maybe he was getting too old for this. 

And if she was right, he didn’t want to contemplate what it meant, the awful possibilities. He still needed to hear the words though. “Get it over with,” he called back over his shoulder.

Her words didn’t disappoint him.

“It was sabotage.”

The End

Authors’ Note: The quotation used for both our title and the President’s fatigued observation is the opening lines from _‘Henry IV, Part I’_ by -you guessed it  <G>\- William Shakespeare. A quick run down here for the curious. The King is delivering a speech about how England, so long torn by civil war, may now have the chance to unite and fight a common enemy. The King wants to embark on the Crusades - _possibly,_ we’re not too sure about that. Have to reread it to be sure <G>\- but news of the Welsh uprising and a few other problems puts the brakes on THAT idea.

 

Gee, guess Hank was having a bad day, too. 


End file.
